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BY  THE  AUTHOR  OF 

HIS  LETTERS 


MARIONETTES 


One  Volume,  izmo,  Extra  Cloth,  $1.00. 


"  Bears  the  same  delicate  touches  which  have  made 
all  of  her  earlier  works  delightful." — Chicago  Mail. 

"  Of  absorbing  interest." — Boston  Home  Journal. 
"  A  powerful  story." — New  York  Recorder. 

"  In  some  respects  it  may  be  regarded  as  her  mas- 
terpiece."— Chicago  Herald. 

"  Every  page  breathes  freshness  and  originality." 
— Boston  Courier. 

"Julien   Gordon   is  one  of    the   freshest,    raciest, 
keenest,  and  most  successful  of  American  writers." 
— Ohio  State  Journal. 


HIS   LETTERS 


HIS  LETTERS 


BY 


JULIEN   GORDON 

AUTHOR  OF  "  MARIONETTES,"  "A  DIPLOMAT'S  DIARY,"  "A  SUC- 
CESSFUL MAN,"   "VAMPIRES,"   "  MLLE.  RESEDA," 
"A  PURITAN   PAGAN,"   ETC.,   ETC. 


COPYRIGHT,  1892,  BY 
CASSELL  PUBLISHING  COMPANY. 


All  rights  reserved. 


THE   MBRSHON   COMPANY   PRESS, 
RAHWAY,  N.  J. 


HIS  LETTERS 


CHAPTER   I. 

'T^HERE  had  been  a  crowd  about  her 
1  painting  all  of  the  day,  we  were  told  at 
the  door.  But  when  we  entered  the  gallery 
from  the  wet,  darkening  street,  there  were 
but  a  few  stragglers  left,  loitering  languidly, 
not  as  if  they  had  a  care  for  the  pictures, 
but  because  they  were  afraid  to  venture 
into  a  cold,  gusty  twilight.  By  and  by 
even  these  threw  away  or  rolled  up  their 
catalogues,  lowered  their  veils  and  hoisted 
up  their  petticoats,  or  turned  up  their  collars 
and  their  trousers,  as  their  sex  might  dic- 
tate, and  made  for  the  great  banging  baize 
door.  So  Thornton  and  I  were  left  alone. 

He  had  passed  the  picture  once  or  twice 
with  his  rapid,  cold  glance,  but,  when  he  had 
the  field  all  to  himself,  he  came  back  to  it 

2228416 


a  HIS  LETTERS 

with  a  certain  eager  restlessness  that  did  not 
escape  my  notice.  One  was  apt  to  notice 
what  Thornton  did.  What  is  it  about  some 
people  that  so  arrests,  so  excites  our  curi- 
osity? It  is  a  riddle,  sphinxlike,  unreadable, 
untellable.  We  may  say  of  this  or  that 
man  or  woman  that  we  love  or  hate  them, 
approve  or  disapprove  ;  we  may  praise  or 
censure  them,  extol  or  vilify,  there  is  just 
one  thing  that  we  cannot  do — ignore  them. 
They  hold  us ;  be  it  to  irritate  or  to  charm, 
it  matters  not.  We  say  of  such  an  one  : 
he  or  she  is  a  person,  an  individual,  a  real- 
ity;  occupying  space  in  a  world  of  shadows. 
We  breathe  them  ;  whether  they  be  mephitic 
or  wholesome  may  depend  upon  our  lungs, 
but  at  any  rate  they  have  furnished  us  with 
an  atmosphere.  It  environs  us,  we  absorb 
it,  and  it  becomes  a  part  of  us. 

Why  do  I  say  all  this  ?  I  was  thinking 
of  poor  Thornton.  No  one  that  I  have  ever 
met  had  more  of  this  curious,  inexpressible 
impelling  power,  force,  call  it  what  you  will. 

I  can  see  him  now  with  his  pale  and  tragic 
face;  his  eyes  that  seemed  to  pierce  the 
souls  of  others,  while  they  kept  so  well 


HIS  LETTERS  3 

their  own  secrets ;  his  tall,  straight  figure, 
his  elegant,  aristocratic  hands ;  his  set  lips, 
with  their  expression  which  could  be  so 
sternly  harsh,  and  again  melt  suddenly  into 
a  smile,  whose  sensitive  beauty  warmed  the 
heart. 

As  he  looked  at  this  picture  which,  in  an 
hour,  had  made  the  artist  famous,  I  looked 
at  him.  I  often  did  so,  furtively,  as  men 
rarely  look  at  each  other.  There  was  some- 
thing in  him  that  fascinated.  He  had  come 
to  the  city  where  I  dwelt,  the  great  city 
of  our  Eastern  civilization,  alone,  without 
wealth,  with  few  friends,  and  he  had  thrown 
his  glove  across  its  cruel  face  defiantly,  and 
he  had  conquered  it.  Of  course  he  had 
been  more  or  less  well  equipped ;  he  was 
well-born,  well-mannered,  had  taken  high 
honors  at  his  university — was,  in  fine,  a 
gentleman.  Yet  how  often  all  this  is  not 
enough  !  Later,  terrible  troubles  had  come 
upon  him,  troubles  of  which  he  never  spoke, 
and  he  had  for  many  years  lived  like  a  re- 
cluse, except  when  his  voice  thundered  at 
the  bar  or  from  the  tribune. 

I  looked  down  at  the  catalogue,  where  I 


4  HIS  LETTERS 

held  it  open  with  my  thumb,  and  read  the 
name  of  the  picture  before  which  we  had 
paused,  "  Two  Burdens."  A  desolate  brown 
field,  flat,  stretching  away  to  a  dark  red 
horizon,  where  a  dying  sun  lay  on  a  pile  of 
clouds.  Wind-swept,  sere.  In  the  fore- 
ground a  few  scraggy  bushes,  wan,  fruitless. 
Across  the  melancholy  desolation  two  hu- 
man figures  hurried.  One  was  a  humble, 
trembling,  crouching  creature,  an  old  man 
in  tattered  garments,  bowed  under  a  great 
load  which  lay  across  his  shoulders ;  totter- 
ing, weary,  yet  with  a  kindly,  nay,  happy 
light  in  two  uplooking  eyes.  One  whom 
Napoleon,  meeting,  would  have  said,  "Je 
mtcarte  toujours  pour  qui  porte  un  far- 
deau" 

The  other  figure  was  that  of  a  woman ; 
a  woman  tall,  queenly,  lovely,  dressed  in 
queenly  apparel.  There  were  jewels  upon 
the  slender  shoe,  from  which  her  garments 
were  swept  backward  by  a  cruel  blast,  and 
jewels  on  her  fingers  and  at  her  throat. 
She  was  wrapped  in  a  rich  cloak,  or  rather 
coat,  cut  in  a  strange  fashion,  of  that  dusky 
rose  sheen  of  which  Tintoretto  seems  alone 


'HIS  LETTERS  5 

to  have  mastered  the  yellowing  tones,  but 
which  the  brush  here  had  caught  and 
riveted.  Her  head  was  borne  erect  and 
haughtily.  One  felt  that  those  proud 
shoulders  had  never  stooped  to  bear  a 
weight ;  but  in  her  face  !  Never  was  deeper 
anguish  painted,  never  profounder  agony 
portrayed.  She  seemed  like  one  hastening 
to  meet  half-way  some  fateful  presage,  or 
speeding  to  escape  some  torturing  doom. 
There  was  a  wistful  yearning  on  her  fore- 
head as  of  one  who,  seeking  life,  had  found 
but  death.  It  was  a  striking  picture,  start- 
ling ;  and  yet  one  felt  to  the  many  it  might 
bring  no  meaning. 

"  Who  is  the  artist,  did  you  say  ?  "  asked 
Thornton,  turning  to  me  eagerly,  after 
a  long  and  speechless  halt  before  the 
canvas,  on  which  a  brilliant  light  was 
cast. 

"  Why,"  I  said,  astonished,  "  have  you  not 
heard,  do  you  not  know  ? "  And  then  I 
named  her. 

"Ah,  is  it  she?" 

"  Yes  ;  are  you  one  of  her  friends  ? " 

14  No,"  he  answered  smilingly  ;  "  bats  and 


6  HIS  LETTERS 

owls  don't  play  with  birds  of  such  glowing 
plumage." 

"  But  surely  you  have  seen  her?" 

"I  have  not." 

"  Mrs.  Moncrief  is  everywhere." 

"  I  am  nowhere.  When  the  evening 
comes  I  go  back  with  other  night  hawks, 
you  know,  into  my  woods.  The  light  hurts 
my  eyes." 

"  And  you  think  this  remarkable  ?  " 

"  I  do." 

"  She  ought  to  know  it." 

"  Pshaw  !  " 

"  I  shall  tell  her." 

"  She  will  only  laugh." 

"  Why  should  she  who  lives  among 
pygmies  laugh  at  the  praise  of  a  giant  ?  " 

"If  she  lives  among  pygmies,  I  presume 
they  are  to  her  taste." 

"  Can  she  who  tells  this  story  be  a  doll  ?  " 

He  shrugged  his  shoulders.  "  Who  knows? 
There  are  women  who  have  souls  only  in 
the  tips  of  their  fingers,"  he  said  lightly. 

"What,  wield  such  a  brush  and  have  no 
soul  ?  You  blaspheme  ! " 

"I  am  an  old  blasphemer,  Milburn." 


HIS  LETTERS  7 

"  Yet  we  hard  sinners  stopped  longer 
here,  I  find,  than  that  fair-faced  girl  who 
stared  a  moment,  yawned,  and  moved  on, 
apparently  much  bored." 

"  I  saw  that  girl ;  she  was  craning  for  a 
lover,  who  didn't  come." 

"  He  was  not  worth  expecting,  then." 

"  My  dear  Milburn,  you  don't  know  the 
sex." 

"  Well,  were  I  a  girl  I  wouldn't  look  at 
painted  things  when  I  expected  my  lover. 
Love  would  suffice." 

"  Do  you  know  the  color  of  it  ?  " 

"  Do  you  ? " 

"Why  do  you  ask?" 

"  I  ask  because  it's  interesting." 

"What,  its  color?" 

"  No,  you." 

"I?" 

"  Yes,  you  in  conjunction  with  love." 

"  Oh,  I  am  defunct ! " 

"  Since  when  ?" 

"  Since — years ;  dead  as  a  dog." 

"  Dead  !  and  that  splendid  outburst  of 
eloquence,  no  later  than  yesterday,  that  car- 
ried hundreds  away  breathless  on  its  wing  ?" 


8  HIS  LETTERS 

"  That's  mere  froth.  That  isn't  living. 
Dead  men  have  voices  too  sometimes.  By 
Jove  !  but  I  have  missed  my  train  !  "  He 
looked  at  the  slowly  vibrating  pendulum  of 
the  clock  that  hung  aloft. 

"  Dine  with  me  at  the  club,  or  at  my 
rooms,  as  you  like." 

"Your  rooms,  then." 

By  and  by,  over  our  cigars,  "  Milburn," 
he  cried  suddenly,  "she's  a  genius  ! " 

"  Who's  a  genius  ?  " 

"The  lady  who  painted  the  picture,  Mrs. 
Moncrief." 

"  Why  don't  you  go  and  tell  her  so,  then  ? 
Women  don't  smite  men  for  boldness." 

He  gave  a  short,  dry  laugh,  "  I  am  timid." 

"Timid!  Afraid  of  stage-fright,  eh?" 
It  was  my  turn  to  laugh  now  at  the  man 
who  had  enthralled  thousands  with  his 
voice. 

"  Exactly  that."  He  shook  the  ashes 
from  his  forefinger. 

"  She's  used  to  men,  the  fair  Heloise ; 
she'll  put  you  at  your  ease  ;  she  isn't  timid. 
But,  if  tradition  tells  the  truth,  it  says  that 
women  have  had  cause  to  be  afraid  of  you." 


HIS  LETTERS  9 

"  Tradition  lies  !  " 
"  Humph." 

Then    somehow   we   fell   to   talking    of 
other  things. 

And  now  that  he  whom  I  was  proud  to 
call  my  friend  has  passed  into  the  world  of 
shadows,  and  that  she  who  inspired  in  him 
the  mad  devotion  few  women  ever  know, 
has  also  slipped  into  the  silence  that  sur- 
rounds the  spheres,  methinks  it  is  not  all 
unfitting  that  these  letters — simply  the 
record  of  a  man's  loving — should  be  given 
to  the  world.  They  are  but  fragments — for 
some  were  lost,  I  ween,  or  willfully  de- 
stroyed— which  through  the  strangest  cir- 
cumstance fell  to  my  keeping.  In  publish- 
ing them  to-day  I  break  no  vow,  am 
disloyal  to  no  promise ;  I  wrong  no  living 
soul,  neither  do  I  betray  the  dead.  He 
who  penned  them  was  a  man  of  genius. 
But  love,  such  love  as  his,  is  too  absorbing 
even  for  genius  to  portray,  save  haltingly 
Hence  I  make  no  claim  to  the  exhibition 
of  genius — in  these  letters. 

But  spontaneity  of  expression  true  love 


to  HIS  LETTERS 

must  always  find.  If  these  prove  that  love 
still  lives  with  all  its  exaltation  and  its 
fervor  in  an  age  accused  of  materialism  and 
of  hardness,  'tis  well.  Of  love,  however, 
there  are  no  proofs.  He  who  would  prove 
religion  falters  ;  he  can  but  pray.  He  who 
seeks  decisive  proofs  of  love  is  either  knave 
or  fool. 

Such  as  they  are,  I  give  them.  To  me 
they  were  delivered  in  two  packets,  tied 
with  a  silken  string  all  worn  and  soiled. 
There  were  no  words  upon  them,  except, 
marked  in  a  woman's  hand,  "  Before  "  and 
"  After."  The  first  were  written,  therefore, 
e'er  they  met,  the  late  ones  afterward.  Be- 
tween them  I  have  written  a  few  words. 
They  are  of  her  he  worshiped.  I  knew  her 
well,  or  thought  I  did.  I  may  have  been 
mistaken. 

Letter  First. 

MY  DEAR  MRS.  MONCRIEF  : 

Although  I  have  not  had  the  honor  of  an 
introduction,  my  name  may  not  be  entirely 
unknown  to  you. 
.     I  venture   to   send  you   a  collection   of 


HIS  LETTERS  II 

ephemeral  papers  published  some  years  ago 
by  a  friend  of  mine.  They  have,  in  my 
estimation,  some  merit,  and  their  subject, 
"  Modern  Art,"  may  commend  them  to  your 
favor. 

Should  you  not  care  to  read  the  book, 
may  it  serve,  at  least,  to  attest  the  respect, 
appreciation,  and  admiration  with  which 
your  genius  has  inspired  me.  I  have  seen 
your  picture  !  Need  I  say  more? 
Sincerely  yours, 

HUBERT  THORNTON. 

Letter  Second. 

MY  DEAR  MRS.  MONCRIEF  : 

I  had  not  thought  that  you  would  deign 
to  answer  my  note,  although  I  hoped  you 
would  accept  the  little  work  on  art.  I  can- 
not tell  you  how  deeply  your  courtesy  has 
touched  me.  "  Proud  of  a  letter  from 
me?"  Heavens!  I  wish  you  could  read 
in  my  heart  the  humility  your  words 
awaken. 

Faithfully  your  servant, 

HUBERT  THORNTON, 


13  fiJS  LETTERS 

Letter  Third. 

MY  DEAR  MADAME  : 

/  help  you  f  That  is  impossible.  You 
little  know  how  much  it  would  be  in  your 
power  to  do  for  me.  In  a  sad  life  your 
genius  penetrates  like  a  ray  of  sunshine,  to 
warm  and  invigorate. 

But  I  say  too  much  ;  pardon  me ! 
Faithfully  yours, 

H.  T. 
Letter  Fourth. 

There  seems  to  be  no  doubt  that  the  let- 
ter which  I  sent  at  five  o'clock  yesterday 
was  delivered.  What  has  become  of  it? 
What  also  has  become  of  your  second  letter 
that  I  should  have  gotten  yesterday  ?  Bear 
with  me  for  a  moment  while  I  tell  you 
about  the  last  two  days.  On  Friday,  I  was 
not  fortunate  enough  to  get  a  line.  That  did 
not  hinder  me  from  sending  you  a  letter  that 
day.  Why  should  it  ?  I  did  not  write  to 
you  because  I  really  believed  that  you  could 
care  to  receive  my  letters,  but  because  it 
gave  me  such  great  pleasure  to  write  them. 
On  Saturday  morning,  I  got  a  kind,  a  most 


HIS  LETTERS  13 

kind  message  in  the  letter  whose  envelope 
I  inclosed  to  you  two  hours  ago.  From 
something  that  you  graciously  said  I  hoped 
that  I  might  have  still  another  line  from 
you  yesterday  ;  but  that  again  did  not  with- 
hold me  from  sending  you  a  long  letter  at 
five  o'clock.  From  you,  since  eight  o'clock 
Saturday  morning,  I  have  heard  nothing, 
until  I  got  the  note  which  has  distressed  me 
so  to-day.  You  tell  me  that  you  have 
failed.  Of  course  you  have  failed.  I 
know  well  enough  what  that  means.  It 
means  that  out  of  sheer  compassion  you 
did  try  to  think  a  little  kindly  of  me,  but 
that  you  have  found  you  could  not.  I  am 
not  surprised.  I  deserve  nothing  at  your 
hands.  I  would  give  no  woman  a  moment's 
weariness,  least  of  all,  one  whom  .  .  .  but 
my  tongue  is  palsied. 

Letter  Fifth. 

I  cannot  understand  your  letter.  I  re- 
ceived but  one  letter  from  you  yesterday. 
It  was  in  the  inclosed  envelope,  and  came 
by  post  very  early  in  the  morning.  I  hoped 
for  another,  but  got  not  a  word  until  this 


14  HIS  LETTERS 

moment.  I  wrote  to  you,  however,  and 
that  there  might  be  no  possible  miscarriage 
I  took  myself  and  placed  it  in  the  hands  of 
the  messenger.  Where  is  that  letter?  It 
would  simply  kill  me  to  have  that  letter  go 
astray. 

I  can  never  trust  that  messenger  again. 
The  torrent  shall  find  other  channels.  You 
should  have  nothing  to  do  with  one  so 
cursed  of  fortune.  As  I  told  you,  I  have 
no  luck.  You  ought  to  have  a  supersti- 
tious horror  of  me,  but  you  have  not,  have 
you  ?  That  is  because  you  are  an  angel. 

H.   T. 

Letter  Sixth. 

So  the  letter  is  lost.  It  seems  to  me  that 
I  could  have  hurled  the  earth  from  its  axis 
to  get  back  that  letter  from  a  stranger's 
hand  ;  the  thought  that  any  eye  but  one 
should  look  on  it  is  pure  agony.  I  cannot 
rewrite  it ;  I  might  as  well  try  to  recall  the 
blood  my  heart  lost  yesterday.  But  my 
heart  is  still  strenuous,  still  loyal,  though  I 
thought  it  would  break  this  morning. 

But    I    can   write   another    one.      What 


HIS  LETTERS  1 5 

smote  me  as  with  a  bludgeon  was  your 
thought  that  I  could  get  a  line  from  you, 
and  let  a  day  pass  without  answering  it,  or 
thanking  you  for  it.  Why,  what  should 
hinder  me  ?  I  should  have  to  be  dead. 
Don't  imagine  that  I  wish  to  place  you  un- 
der any  similar  obligation.  I  would  not 
have  you  write  a  word  that  you  did  not 
wish  to  write,  that  you  could  help  writing. 
What  would  such  a  word  be  worth  to  me  ? 
I  will  not  even  tell  you  again  when  your 
silence  makes  my  day  a  blank.  Ah,  I  am 
grateful  for  small  favors. 

Do  you  think  I  do  not  thirst  to  see  you  ? 
What  chains  at  my  door  and  chains  at  yours 
could  bar  me  out  ? 

I  have  an  atonement  to  make.  I  must 
not  give  it  the  coup  de  jarnac.  Jarnac  cut 
the  cords  of  his  opponent's  knees,  and  of 
course  the  poor  wretch  fell  prostrate,  and 
all  in  vain  he  waved  his  sword. 

But  write  I  must.  When  once  I  thought 
that  I  might  not,  my  head  fell  forward  on 
the  table  and  I  sobbed. 

Is  it  true  that  you  are  not  well  ?  O 
God,  it  is  not  possible  to  receive  so  much 


16  HIS  LETTERS 

of  sweet  and  bitter  in  one  stroke  !  But  I 
will  be  good,  so  quiet,  so  very  calm  ;  and 
you  will  still  let  me  write  to  you  now  and 
then.  I  will  never  tease  and  worry  you. 
I  will  not  say  a  word  about  myself,  or  even 
about  you.  I  will  talk  only  of  art  or  of 
books.  Surely  it  cannot  vex  you  to  hear 
me  talk  of  these. 

Ah,  as  I  told  you  once,  a  touch  of  some 
hands  suffices  to  freeze  or  to  inflame  ;  to  lift 
to  heaven  or  plunge  in  the  abyss.  Do  not 
be  careless  with  such  touches.  If  I  had 
your  power  to  appall,  or  torture,  or  ravish 
with  a  word,  I  would  be  generous.  If  the 
letter  which  you  so  sweetly  sent  me  yester- 
day went  by  post,  it  may  reach  me  to- 
morrow morning.  Let  me  hang  upon  that 
hope  to-night.  You  saw  that  when  I  sent 
you  the  envelope  I  kept  the  precious 
letter  that  it  held.  It  was  the  only  one  I 
had  left.  I  could  not  part  with  it  quite  yet. 

I  cannot  write  more — I  have  been  made 
so  timid  by  your  first  letter  this  morning ; 
you  made  it  so  clear  to  me  that  it  would  be 
much  wiser  if  I  wrote  no  more.  Good- 
night!  Good-nigltn' 


HIS  LETTERS  17 

Letter  Seventh. 

.  .  .  Let  me  tell  you  what  you  have  done 
for  me.  Of  late,  since  you  have  let  me 
think  of  you  a  little,  since  I  have  not  felt  so 
utterly  daunted  and  dismayed,  a  wondrous 
alchemy  seems  to  have  been  working  in  my 
brain  ;  you  are  always  there.  You  exert 
the  strangest  influence.  I  know  that  my 
thoughts  are  more  sinewy  and  more  fecund, 
that  my  vision  is  clearer  ;  but  most  marvel- 
ous of  all  is  the  change  that  has  come  over 
the  face  of  the  earth.  It  is  eternal  spring 
with  me ;  I  see  all  things  through  a  haze 
of  sympathy  and  gratitude.  I  cannot 
glance  at  anyone,  or  speak,  or  write  with- 
out an  overflow  of  kindness  from  my  heart. 
Oh,  others  get  some  of  the  drops  from  the 
fountain  which  your  gentle  wand  made 
gush  out  from  the  rock ;  and  think  what 
this  means  to  me  !  I  used  to  be  very 
irritable ;  my  nerves  seemed  always  on  the 
rack.  Now,  only  one  thing  can  disturb  me. 
If  by  chance  a  small  annoyance  or  petty 
impulse  come  to  me,  I  smite  them  aside : 
"  Not  now !  The  house  is  full,  the  queen 


1 8  #fs  LETTERS 

is  here."  Does  this  seem  to  you  but  rav- 
ing? I  suppose  so,  for  you  have  needed 
no  such  purification,  no  such  stimulus ; 
and,  if  you  did,  it  would  not  be  in  me  that 
you  would  seek  it. 

So  you  are  learning  to  fence,  madame. 
Marguerite,  too,  was  a  mistress  of  the  ra- 
pier. I  am  not  to  be  scared  so  easily.  Do 
you  imagine  you  can  hide  your  sex  under 
the  costume  of  a  page?  Don't  you  know 
that  you  are  the  very  quintessence  of  femi- 
ninity, that  your  whole  being  throbs  with 
that  eternal  womanly  about  which  Goethe 
used  to  speak  ?  Don't  you  know  that  is 
why  you  can't  help  drawing  "hearts  after 
you  tangled  in  amorous  nets?" 

I  had  a  lovely  dream  last  night  ;  I 
dreamed  that  I  found  again,  in  the  folds  of 
a  small  note,  some  violets.  But  this  time 
their  scent  I  could  not  recognize.  It 
startled,  perplexed,  excited  me.  "Is  it  pos- 
sible," I  said,  "  that  these  flowers  can  have 
touched  a  lady's  lips ;  that  what  makes  me 
so  giddy  is  the  lingering  perfume  of  her 
breath  ?  "  You  see  what  idle  fancies  come 
to  one  in  the  still  night.  At  all  events, 


HIS  LETTERS  19 

these  violets  have  also  ceased  to  have  a 
separate  existence  ;  and  I  believe  the 
thoughts  they  are  transformed  to  cannot 
entirely  discredit  the  sweetness  of  their 
origin. 

You  ask  me  why  I  despise .     I  have 

no  personal  grievance,  but  I  have  known  him 
do  such  mean  things  to  men  who  were  too 
weak  to  defend  themselves.  He  is  always 
squat  like  a  toad,  close  at  F.'s  ear.  But 
there  is  no  lack  of  mean  men  in  the  world, 
and  this  is  no  reason  why  one  should  think 
of  him  at  all ;  were  it  not  that  he  has  a 
great  deal  of  scholarship  in  certain  direc- 
tions. And  he  is  one  of  the  few  men  out- 
side of  professors'  chairs  who  can  discuss 
intelligently  Spinozism,  Hegelism,  the  "  Cat- 
egories "  of  Kant,  and  so  on.  What  arouses 
contempt  is  to  see  a  man,  commanding 
such  weapons,  apply  them  constantly  to 
sordid  and  petfy  ends.  It  is  as  if  a 
tramp  had  sneaked  into  the  arsenal  of 
heaven. 

Good-by  !     Ah  that  I  might  add  another 
word  just  here. 

H.  T. 


*0  HIS  LETTERS 

Letter  Eighth. 

I  held  my  hand  from  writing,  yesterday, 
because  I  was  trying  to  heed  a  certain 
injunction :  "  Promise  you  will  never  send 
me  one  line  unless  I  bid  you."  I  had  to 
disobey  it  once,  on  Tuesday,  for  there  were 
things  that  belonged  to  you  ;  things  that 
had  been  already  said,  but  missed  you.  I 
had  firmly  resolved,  however,  never  to  dis- 
obey again,  though  I  did  hope  that  in  the 
spring,  when  you  had  gone  to  the  warm 
country  where  such  as  you  should  always 
dwell,  you  would  lift  the  veto,  and  permit 
me  to  send  to  you  my  fleet,  sad  mes- 
sengers. But  now,  in  this  morning's  letter, 
it  half  seems  to  me  that  you  have  lifted 
it.  You  ask  me  questions.  How  shall  I 
answer  them  if  my  hands  are  tied  ?  If  I 
am  wrong  you  shall  rebuke  me  softly,  and 
I  will  be  mute. 

Ah !  those  dainty  volumes  which  you 
sent  me  with  my  name  inscribed,  and  your 
lovely,  lovely  letter  breathing  forgiveness ; 
and  yet  the  gentlest  of  reproofs  in  every 
line..  Yes,  and  there  was  something  else — 


HIS  LETTERS  21 

that  tiny  ribbon  of  pale  blue  silk  that 
fastened  the  little  parcel.  I  said,  "Was  it 
not  her  fingers  that  fashioned  the  little 
knot?"  I  hope  it  was;  don't  tell  me  it 
was  not ;  for  I  have  made  a  collar  of  it  and 
have  it  now  around  my  neck.  A  silken 
chain  is  it  ?  Yes,  but  if  it  were  forged  of 
iron,  as  a  slave's  collar  ought  to  be,  it  could 
not  grip  me  tighter. 

It  is  also  sweet  to  me  to  think  that  the 
scrap  of  your  handwriting  on  these  fly 
leaves  I  am  privileged  to  keep.  But  I 
shall  keep  much  more.  Do  you  think  that 
my  memory,  which  can  store  up  such  life- 
less trash  as  dates,  will  ever  surrender  one 
of  your  kindly  words  ? 

Last  night  I  heard  some  people  praising 
you.  My  heart  warmed  toward  them,  and 
yet  I  felt  a  certain  jealousy.  Oh,  peerless 
one,  what  is  this  pain  I  feel  when  they  but 
say  your  name? 

Do  I  like  Camors?  Do  I  like  Alci- 
biades  ?  Do  I  like  Crichton  ?  Chastelard  ? 
Do  I  like  any  of  these  figures  in  history 
or  fiction  ? — which,  of  course,  is  the  truest 
history — that  curse  boys  by  infection  and 


22  ffIS  LETTERS 

make  so  often  their  lives  a  ruin  ?  Of 
course  I  like  them,  because  some  natures 
have  an  affinity  for  poisons  and  seem  to 
tolerate  what  to  others  would  prove  fatal. 
But  unhappily,  in  the  packed  thoroughfares 
and  ferocious  struggle  of  to-day,  a  man  can 
only  aim  at  excellence  in  one  thing,  and 
fortunate  is  he  if  he  reaches  it.  The  most 
that  one  can  hope  for  is  to  convert  one's 
self  into  a  useful  machine.  A  man,  in  the 
old  sense,  one  cannot  be ;  that  is  the  pity 
of  it  and  the  tragedy.  Men  used  to 
conquer  their  destiny ;  now  they  submit 
to  it. 

The  wonder  about  Camors  is  that  a  hum- 
drum bourgeois  like  Feuillet  should  have 
conceived  him.  But  Compiegne  accounts 
for  that. 

Bret  Harte  ?  Oh,  yes  ;  I  like  him  well 
enough.  But  great  Heavens!  you  must  not 
talk  about  "revering"  anybody.  It  is  for  a 
goddess,  for  the  woman  of  whom  one  says, 
"  O  dea  certe  /"  that  such  an  expression  is 
reserved,  and  I  doubt  if  even  a  goddess 
would  quite  like  the  word.  I  am  sure  that 
Aphrodite  would  have  curled  her  lip  at  it. 


HIS  LETTERS  33 

Letter  Ninth. 

If  I  lived  forever — and  it  seems  to  me 
that  you  might  give  me  what  another,  no 
sweeter  than  you,  gave  Tithonus,  the  gift 
of  immortality — I  could  not  tell  you  how  I 
love  you  for  driving  up  to  my  door  to- 
night. Ah,  how  right  my  instinct  was 
when  I  spoke  of  Marguerite  de  Valois, 
whom  I  used  to  dream  of  for  years.  She 
would  have  done  what  you  did.  And  do 
you  know,  I  was  at  home  at  that  moment. 
I  had  been  notified  by  telegram  that  a  lot 
of  men  were  coming  to  see  me — me,  in  the 
mood  that  I  was  in.  I  heard  the  sound  of 
wheels,  and  told  a  servant  for  God's  sake 
to  make  it  plain  that  I  was  out,  and  would 
not  come  home  till  midnight.  Think  of  it ! 
you  were  close  to  me,  and  I  was  kissing 
your  letter  at  that  moment.  That  letter 
came  when  I  was  dining.  There  was  a 
man  with  me.  It  agitated  me  greatly.  I 
needed  ten  minutes  before  I  could  answer 
the  sweetest  message  that  could  come  to 
any  man  upon  this  earth.  I  had  not  ex- 
pected it ;  I  was  thunderstruck.  I  thought, 


24  HIS  LETTERS 

"  She  believes  me  capable  of  wounding 
her  again  !  Was  not  once  enough  ?  And 
it  is  therefore  useless,  for  the  moment,  at 
all  events,  to  try  to  touch  her  heart.  By 
and  by,  perhaps,  she  may  better  understand 
whether  she  has  misjudged  me ;  and  then 
she  has  too  much  gentleness  not  to  be 
sorry  for  hurting  me  to-day." 

But  what  right  had  I  to  feel  hurt  ?  Any 
hurt  would  be  too  good  for  me.  What  did 
my  repentance  amount  to  if  I  could  not 
bear  punishment? 

But  the  idea  that  you  imagined  I  mis- 
took you,  that  I  was  talking  to  you  as  one 
might  have  talked  to  any  handsome  or  silly 
woman — 'twas  that  which  made  me  feel  a 
sort  of  despair.  "  Can  it  be  possible,"  I 
said,  "  that  she,  whose  every  word,  every 
suggestion,  every  reticence  I  have  been 
poring  over  all  night,  can  believe  that  I  care 
for  her  only  for  her  fair  face  ?  Behind  how 
many  fair  faces  flashes  such  a  soul  as  yours? 
and  what  an  indignity  to  me,  although 
my  past  may  have  deserved  it.  Should  I 
wince  the  less  for  that — that  you  should 
hold  me  capable  of  thinking  of  you  in  the 


HIS  LETTERS  *5 

light  way  that  men  may  think  of  other 
women — ah  !  you  don't  know  the  difference 
between  little  passions  and  a  great  one. 
Neither  did  I  know  it  until  now.  You 
don't  see  that  the  one  annihilates  even  the 
memory  of  others ;  and  that  a  man  can  no 
more  think  of  anything  but  noble  things 
than,  translated  to  paradise,  he  could  look 
back  upon  the  follies  that  had  sent  him  to 
purgatory. 

Ah  1  I  was  blessing  you  because  I  could 
dream  again ;  because  the  sight  of  the  deep 
sky  or  a  far-off  strain  of  music  could  again 
set  my  spirit  soaring,  as  it  did  in  the  golden 
days.  And  then,  just  then,  came  your  letter, 
in  which  you  taxed,  or  seemed  to  tax  me, 
with  speaking  of  you  in  the  same  breath 
with  a  dreadful  woman.  Well,  no  matter. 
Of  this  we  will  speak  no  more. 

It  is  just  because  I  am  no  saint  that  I  am 
grateful  to  you  for  lifting  me  above  myself. 
It  may  be — so  strangely  is  a  man's  dual 
nature  mixed — that  you  could  not  do  this 
unless  you  had  a  lovely  face  ;  but  sure,  but 
doubly  sure  I  am  that  you  could  never  do 
it  unless  you  had  a  lovely  soul. 


26  HIS  LETTERS 

It  is  late.  Let  me  send  this  quickly,  lest 
it  be  too  late  to  come  to  your  hand  to-night ;. 
and  let  me  write  again  to-morrow,  for  I  only 
live  in  you. 

I  will  answer  you  fully  about  Camors. 
There  is  much  to  say  that  I  left  unsaid. 
Good-night  !  Good-night ! 

You  have  been  to  my  door.  I  would  that 
I  might  die  to-night. 

Letter  Tenth. 

* 

It  is  four  o'clock  in  the  morning.  I  can- 
not sleep.  I  have  been  lying  with  my  eyes 
shut,  looking  at  you.  I  have  turned  my 
face  due  southeast,  in  the  direction  where 
you  are  sleeping.  I  have  murmured  your 
name,  andj  have  tried  with  a  great  effort 
to  force  my  spirit  through  the  walls  of  brick 
and  stone,  that  it  might  look  down  upon 
you  sleeping,  and  breathe  upon  your  cheek. 
It  must  be  possible  to  do  this.  We  are  no 
more  children  of  the  sun  than  we  are  crea- 
tures of  electricity,  and  the  electric  spark 
needs  no  wire  to  run  upon ;  the  viewless  air 
is  wire  enough.  They  will  find  it  some  day 
— that  means  of  communion  beyond  the 


HIS  LETTERS  27 

barriers  of  sense.  I  have  not  found  it  yet, 
or  how  could  you  have  been  so  near  to  me 
last  night,  and  my  heart  not  have  burst  with 
the  knowledge  ?  You  have  divined  the  se- 
cret of  my  life.  I  have  been  from  childhood 
haunted,  possessed  with  the  passionate  de- 
sire to  forget  myself,  to  lose  myself  in  the 
thought  of  another.  My  life  has  been  one 
ardent,  desperate,  and  at  last  hopeless  quest 
of  something  I  could  never  find  ;  but  when 
love  comes  you  know  him.  There  is  a  seal 
upon  his  forehead,  and  in  his  voice  there  is 
a  music  that  enthralls  the  body  and  the 
soul.  Ah,  when  love  comes,  death  has  no 
terrors.  What  can  death  do  to  one  that 
laughs  back  at  him  and  says,  "  Smite  !  for  I 
have  lived !  " 

Not  Heaven  itself  upon  the  past  has  power  ; 

But  what  has  been  has  been,  and  I  have  had  my  hour. 

My  God  !  when  I  think  of  Wednesday 
night  I  want  to  die  out  of  sheer  ecstasy  at 
your  incomparable  goodness.  Oh,  had  you 
come  in  you  would  have  found  me  breath- 
less, prostrate  on  the  floor ;  and  never 
would  I  have  risen  until  you  had  set  one  of 
your  slender  feet  upon  my  neck. 


aS  HIS  LETTERS 

Later. — What  does  my  secret  matter  ? 
Have  I  guessed  yours  ?  Ah,  tell  me  what 
it  is.  Don't  tantalize  me  by  such  questions 
if  you  never  mean  to  answer  them. 

Do  you  know  why  I  cannot  trust  myself 
to  allude  to  certain  words  that  you  have 
uttered  in  your  last  letters?  I  scarcely 
dare  to  whisper  them  to  my  own  heart.  I 
never  do  whisper  them  save  in  the  dark. 
Do  you  think  that  for  one  tear  of  yours  I 
would  not  give  the  reddest  drops  that  gush 
out  of  my  heart?  I  can  no  more  forget 
them  than  I  can  forget  my  own  identity. 
I  shall  carry  them  with  me  to  the  grave  ; 
and  I  would  disdain  a  heaven  to  which  I 
might  not  bear  them  with  me.  Oh,  I  have 
wished  of  late  that  I  too  believed  in  a  per- 
sonal God,  that  I  might  pray  to  him  to 
bless  you  for  your  immeasurable  sweetness 
to  me.  You  never  can  imagine  what  you 
have  done  for  me.  You  didn't  understand 
what  I  meant  when  I  said  that  you  could 
do  a  hundred  times  more  for  me  than  I  for 
you.  You  had  already  begun  to  do  it,  and 
now  the  work  is  fully  done. 

How   beautiful  your  letters    are !     It  is 


HIS  LETTERS  29 

their  exquisite  unconsciousness  which  is  so 
fetching,  so  irresistible.  You  write  like 
that  great  lady  of  whom  De  Quincey  talks, 
who,  without  knowing  the  meaning  of  the 
word  rhetoric,  wrote  the  lovely  English 
tongue  in  a  way  to  make  Addison  seem 
ponderous  and  stiff. 

You  ask  me  about  C.  He  was  not  at  all 
a  man  to  my  taste.  He  never  could  get 
very  far  above  ground.  The  ideas  were 
very  commonplace  that  he  boomed  'forth 
with  a  big-  voice.  But  he  could  feel  in- 

o 

tensely,  and  in  that  respect,  at  all  events,  he 
was  every  inch  a  man.  I  happened  to  be 

dining  at    Mrs. 's  house  when  C.  was 

brought  in  and  first  introduced  to  her.  I 
glanced  at  them  now  and  then.  She  had  a 
fixed  look  ;  one  saw  that  she  was  interested. 
That  fixed  look,  we  know  what  came  of 
it;  but  at  least  in  fazt partie  a  deux  there 
was  no  cheating.  The  cards  were  on  the 
table,  the  stakes  were  equal.  It  was  not 
a  caprice  against  a  life.  She  played  the 
game  out  to  the  end,  and  although  the 
waters  have  gone  over  her,  I  say,  or  rather 
I  said,  that  in  one  respect  she  was  a  finer 


3°  HIS  LETTERS 

creature  than  P.,  who  slew  a  man  from 
pure  d&ceuvrement,  as  lightly,  until  the 
very  last,  as  thoughtlessly  as  she  might 
have  thrust  aside  a  dog.  That  was  my 
first  thought,  and  if  it  made  me  very  ireful, 
it  was  because  I  felt  certain  that  wherein 
P.  was  lovable  she  must  be  just  like 
you.  And  you  approved  of  her !  You, 
then,  would  do  such  things,  I  thought. 
Now  I  have  more  light. 

I  shivered  at  one  sentence  in  your  letter. 
I  will  not  tell  you  now  what  it  was. 

You  have  set  me  to  thinking  about 
Camors,  and  about  the  strangeness  of  the 
fact  that  in  that  story  the  woman  should 
be  so  much  stronger  and  more  virile, 
yes,  and  braver  than  the  man  !  And  then 
I  remembered  that  there  lived  once  in 
Rome  a  lady  who  was  the  prototype  of  her 
that  loved  Camors.  You  are  familiar,  no 
doubt,  with  the  fact  that  Arria  is  a  counter- 
part of  Feuillet's  heroine. 

You  say  you  like  my  letters ;  I  am 
ashamed  of  them.  I  fain  would  keep  your 
respect.  It  is  because  you  are  all  ruth  and 
gentleness  that  you  say  you  like  them.  Only 


HIS  LETTERS  31 

de  Mussel's  hand  was  fit  to  touch  the  page 
that  your  deep  eyes  should  gaze  upon.  If  I 
had  that  touch  of  his  I  would  brush  you  as 
with  the  wing  of  a  humming-bird,  and  you 
should  smile  and  know  not  why.  But  he  is 
dead,  and  we  that  study  him  do  but  like 
other  babblers — hurt  where  we  would 
soothe,  and  harm  where  we  would  heal. 
Good-by. 

I  have  not  heard  from  you  to-day,  and  1 
am  worried  and  depressed.  But  it  would 
quite  kill  me  if  you  were  to  write  in  charity. 

Letter  Eleventh. 

I  have  just  read  your  letter,  your  letters. 
Ah,  you  are  too  good  to  me  !  I  hesitated  to 
open  the  envelope.  I  turned  it  over  in  my 
fingers.  "What  will  she  say  to  me?"  I 
thought.  "  It  would  be  so  easy  for  her  to 
kill  me  with  one  word.  But  no,"  I  said, 
"  she  is  too  gentle  to  hold  me  blameworthy 
for  what  I  uttered  in  such  a  whirlwind  of 
excitement  as  I  wonder  that  any  man  can 
bear  and  live."  One  does  not — you,  at  least, 
would  not — resent  the  outcries  of  a  man  in 
a  high  fever.  You  would  not  rebuke  him. 


3?  HIS  LETTERS 

You  would  say,  "  Poor  man,  he  raves,"  and 
glide  away.  But  yet,  I  thought,  even  in 
delirium  a  man  may  innocently  say  some- 
thing that  jars  upon  the  fiber  of  an  ear  in- 
finitely more  delicate  than  ours. 

I  read  the  letters.  The  first  was  balm  to 
me.  Ah,  there  is  no  woman  in  the  world 
who  can  be  so  placable  as  you.  I  think 
you  would  not  hurt  a  fly  that  with  an  in- 
stinct for  security  perched  upon  your  slen- 
der finger. 

But  the  second — the  second — I  felt  in  an 
instant  that  some  chord  had  been  struck 
wrongly — which  chord?  I  have  not  found 
it  yet,  but  I  will  find  it. 

You  told  me  things  that  I  did  not  under- 
stand your  telling  me,  about  the  feelings  of 
other  men.  What  have  I  to  do  with  their 
feelings  ?  Do  you  think  mine  like  theirs  ? 
Why,  there  was  a  faint  suggestion  of  the 
very  stroke  that  pierced  when  I  got  your 
little  note  yesterday,  in  the  afternoon.  I 
knew  very  well  why  many  men  would  be 
irresistibly  attracted.  I  have  eyes.  I  am 
not  blind.  But  I  have  something  that  they, 
or  some  of  them,  at  least,  have  not.  It  was 


HIS  LETTERS  33 

through  a  pathway  which  spok'e  not  to  the 
passions  but  to  the  soul  that  you  had  made 
a  willing  thrall  of  me.  Do  you  think  that 
the  men  who  are  merely  conquered  by  your 
physical  attractiveness,  however  compulsive 
it  may  be,  are  translated  as  I  am  ;  that  they 
are  made  better,  oh,  so  much  better,  by  the 
thought  that  they  can  talk  to  you  ;  that  they 
find  dawning  for  them  again  that  strange 
light  that  never  was  on  sea  or  land  ?  Don't 
you  see  that  the  others  love  you  for  them- 
selves, and  that  I  am  not  thinking  of  my- 
self at  all  ?  Do  you  think  men  would  die 
for  mere  desire  ?  Oh,  no  ;  it  is  only  worship 
that  men  die  for. 

Don't  yoiK  know  there  is  one  unerring 
method  of  distinguishing  between  the  men 
who  care  only  for  the  lovely  shell  which  is 
your  body,  and  leave  neglected  and  unprized 
the  sweet  mysterious  story  which  the  shell 
tells  of  the  ocean  whence  it  came  and 
whither  it  must  go  ? 

Does  it  follow,  because  you  have  the 
figure  of  Diana,  and  a  fair  face  behind 
which  lurks  a  divine  vitality,  that  all  men — 
all — must  shut  their  eyes  to  that  without 


34  HIS  LETTERS 

which  you  were  only  the  most  seductive  of 
all  odalisques  ?  The  touchstone  is  so  ob- 
vious that  a  child  might  see  it.  Indeed,  I 
think  the  soft  eyes  of  a  child  might  see  it 
first. 

Why,  there  is  all  the  difference  in  the 
world  between  the  hunger  for  possession 
and  the  thirst  to  be  possessed !  To  have 
one's  mind,  one's  heart,  one's  soul  preoccu- 
pied, monopolized ;  to  think  no  thought, 
thrill  to  no  feeling  that  does  not  point  to 
her ;  aye,  and  to  crave  high  thoughts  and 
the  noblest  feelings  because  they  alone 
seem  worthy  of  her,  that  absent,  far-off, 
hopeless  you  adore.  There  you  have  the 
easy,  decisive  test.  Most  women  never 
could  apply  it.  Their  petty  vanity  about 
their  outside  would  come  in.  But  you  can, 
I  am  sure  that  you  can,  for  you  are  too 
proud  to  be  vain.  The  test  is  whether  a 
man  teases  her  for  perpetual  presence,  for 
close  contact ;  or  whether  he  cannot  be  too 
grateful  for  communion  with  her  mind  and 
with  her  heart. 

What  stabbed  me  in  the  beginning  of  the 
note  that  I  got  yesterday,  in  the  afternoon— 


HIS  LETTERS  35 

I  could'  not  read  it  then- -I  have  read  it 
now  and  well  I  understand  its  playfulness 
— you  are  most  lovely  when  you  play ; — 
what  shocked  me  was  that  you  seemed  to 
take  all  the  outpourings  of  my  heart  for  so 
much  comedy  ;  that  you  seemed  to  class  me 
with  men  whom,  really,  I  look  upon  but  as 
so  many  stags,  and  who  seem  capable  of  see- 
ing in  the  most  perfect  woman  only  the 
female  of  their  species. 

You  seemed — you  must  forgive  me,  I 
know  now  it  was  but  seemed — you  seemed 
to  think  me  capable  of  soiling  you  in  my 
own  heart,  under  the  cowardly  shield  of  a 
comparison  ;  and  you  also  seemed  to  say 
that  my  view  coincided  with  that  of  a  despi- 
cable idiot  whose  name  I  shall  endeavor  to 
forget.  And  do  you  know  why  the  iron 
entered  into  my  soul  ?  I  said,  she  has 
heard  things  about  me.  They  convince  her 
that  I  only  care  for  what  most  men  care 
for.  She  cannot  judge  me  for  herself. 
And  then  I  felt  something  of  the  madness 
of  despair,  the  madness  that  cries,  "  Let  us 
curse  God  and  die  !  " 

A  single  word  will  partially  express  how 


3<5  HIS  LETTERS 

much  I  owe  to  you.  Until  I  had  begun  to 
dream  of  you,  it  was  ten  years  since  I  had 
read  voluntarily  a  line  of  poetry.  Think  of 
it !  For  ten  years  I  had  looked  upon  the 
imaginings  of  those  interpreters  between 
earth  and  heaven  as  so  many  pretty  lies. 
Ah,  I  do  not  need  to  read  the  poets  now ! 
All  they  say  has  come  back  to  me  in  a 
torrent,  a  flood. 

I  will  not  breathe  another  syllable  about 
myself  and  my  own  feelings.  They  are  not 
worth  it.  I  will  do  what  I  meant  to  do 
when  I  began  ;  calmly  and  sagely  address 
myself  to  answering  your  questions — ques- 
tions for  which  I  am  very  grateful,  for 
reasons  that  you  can  guess. 

Camors?  I  did  not  answer  that  question 
fully.  Let  me  deliver  a  little  lecture  on 
Camors.  Imagine  me  an  Oxford  don,  if 
you  please,  with  high  waistcoat,  coat  of 
formal  cut,  short,  meager  whiskers,  the  rest 
of  the  face  closely  shorn,  compressed  and 
important  lips. 

Messieurs  et  Mesdames  :  In  Camors  the 
author  has  unquestionably  drawn  a  highly 
interesting  figure,  but  has  he  proved  his 


HIS  LETTERS  37 

case,  that  is  the  question  ?  M.  Feuillet  has 
essayed  to  show — [Is  not  this  the  true 
soporific,  academical  manner  ?] — that  the 
code  of  honor  is  an  inadequate  substitute 
for  religion.  But  suppose  he  shows  that  it 
is  simply  as  strong  and  as  weak  as  religion, 
neither  better  nor  worse  ?  M.  Feuillet  tells 
us  that  the  code  of  M.  Camors  worked  well 
enough  until  it  was  shivered  by  collision 
with  a  great  passion — a  great,  you  would 
please  to  observe,  not  a  little  one.  What 
reason  have  we  to  suppose  that  in  precisely 
the  same  circumstances  religion  would  have 
been  a  more  effective  shield  ?  The  whole 
record  of  Christianity,  ever  .since  the  priest 
first  crept  behind  the  throne  of  Con- 
stantine,  demonstrates  the  contrary.  We 
need  not  point  to  the  long  list  of  popes 
that  cared  more  for  the  clews  to  the  heart 
of  a  woman  than  for  the  keys  of  St.  Peter. 
Look  rather  at  Abelard,  that  Camors  of  the 
twelfth  century,  that  wondrous  doctor  in 
theology,  that  man  who,  until  he  began  to 
read  lectures  like  this  to  a  charming 
woman,  was  indeed  a  saint  on  earth.  So 
M.  Feuillet  has  proved  nothing.  He  did 


38  HIS  LETTERS 

better  with  his  other  tragedy,  the  "  Petite 
Comtesse." 

This  is  very  nice  and  cogent,  isn't  it  ? 
But  it  doesn't  explain  to  me  why  you 
should  have  asked  me  the  question.  .  .  . 

Letter   Twelfth. 

I  know  nothing  about  Isabella  the 
Second.  I  recalled  Marguerite  of  Valois, 
whom  you  insult  by  the  comparison, 
because  she  was  the  sweetest  woman  in  a 
century  far  better  worth  living  in  than  this ; 
and  because  one  of  .the  most  loyal-hearted 
men  in  France  went  cheerfully  to  death  for 
her  sake  ;  a  fool,  wasn't  he  ? 

I  burn  your  letters  because  they  are 
sacred  to  me.  I  burn  them  from  the  same 
motive  that  makes  it  odious  .to  me,  disgust- 
ing to  hear  your  name  so  much  as  men- 
tioned by  other  men.  You  cannot  under- 
stand that.  It  seems  funny  to  you.  How 
absurd  you  must  think  my  letters.  They 
might  be  set  with  effect  to  some  of  the 
mock-sentimental  music  in  "  Patience,"  if 
you  have  not  forgotten  it.  You  are  a 
very  accomplished  surgeon,  madame.  You 


HIS  LETTERS  39 

know  precisely  how  and  when  to  apply  the 
caustic.  I  congratulate,  you  upon  the  skill 
which  testifies  to  your  experience.  You 
make,  however,  a  somewhat  excessive  use 
of  the  remedy.  A  touch  would  have  suf- 
ficed. 

Letter  Thirteenth. 

Don't  you  know  what  you  did  ?  You 
committed  the  crime  of  llse-majeste".  You 
sinned  against  yourself  through  me.  You 
accused  me  of  insulting  by  comparison  a 
woman  whom  I  adore,  a  woman  whom  I 
know  to  be  an  angel.  Oh,  my  God !  my 
eyes  swam  over  that  first  page,  and  I  could 
read  the  rest  only  by  snatches.  Don't  you 
see  that  I  love  you,  and  that  you  must  not, 
ah !  you  must  not  play  with  me  ?  I  don't 
ask  to  see  you,  but  oh,  let  me  believe  that 
you  believe  in  me  ! 

Ah',  I  have  kissed  this  letter  a  thousand 
times,  and  yet  I  was  half  sorry  to  get  it. 
You  know  "  it  works  like  madness  in  the 
blood  to  be  wroth  with  those  you  love." 
And  I  was  nursing  the  thought  of  such  a 
sweet  revenge,  such  revenge  as  the  angels 


40  HIS  LETTERS 

may  take  upon  a  mortal.  "  Ah,"  I  thought, 
"  I  will  wring  tears  of  contrition  from  those 
sweet  eyes.  Wait  a  moment,"  I  thought, 
"  I  care  not  what  she  has  said  in  the  past,  I 
will  do .  that  which  will  cause  her  never  to 
doubt  in  the  future." 

Oh,  you  stabbed  me  when  you  said  that 
man  A.  would  think  exactly  as  I  thought. 
Does  he  worship  you  ?  Why,  it  was  only 
last  night  that  I  was  telegraphed  to  dine 
with  a  lot  of  men.  That  man  L.,  a  good 
man  enough,  was  one  of  them.  But  I  said, 
"  He  will  be  sure  to  mention  her  name,  and 
I  cannot  bear  it."  So  I  declined  the  invita- 
tion. It  is  a  horrible  thing  for  a  man  to 
hear  anything  said  by  common  men  of  a 
woman  of  his  own  caste.  And  how  infin- 
itely more  heart-scorching  is  it  if  she  is  the 
only  woman  in  all  the  earth  to  him  ! 

Almost  all  night  I  lay  awake  reading 
your  last  two  letters.  There  are  three  now, 
thank  God  !  You  will  let  me  keep  these, 
will  you  not  ?  I  have  them,  Heaven  knows, 
by  heart,  but  there  is  a  faint  perfume  about 
them  which  intoxicates  me. 

But   don't  you  see,  dear,  how  deadly  a 


HIS  LETTERS  41 

wound  you  gave  me  in  return  for  my  humble 
prayer  for  forgiveness,  when  you  accused 
me  of  comparing  an  angel  with  a  dreadful 
woman,  and  put  me  on  the  level  with  a  cad  ? 
But  if  I  did  pain  you,  oh,  forgive  me  !  I  did 
not  dare  to  tell  you  that  I  loved  you.  Those 
words  that  Shelley  robbed  me  of  have  been 
always  on  my  lips  : 

One  word  is  too  often  profaned 
For  me  to  profane  it. 

God  bless  you  !  He  will.  It  is  with  you 
and  such  as  you  that  he  peoples  heaven  ;  or 
else  let  me  be  banished. 

Letter  Fourteenth. 

I  am  in  heaven.  Now  I  cannot  write  for 
joy.  If  I  drop  to  earth  to-morrow,  it  will 
be  to  worship  her  who  sent  me  skyward  for 
a  day. 

Ah,  yes  ;  I  can  sleep  to-night — sleep,  that 
sweet  counterfeit  of  death.  I  bless  you,  I 
am  on  my  knees  to  you. 

Letter  Fifteenth. 

SATURDAY    NIGHT. 
I  came  down  from  the  clouds  to-night.     I 


42  HIS  LETTERS 

would  not  stay  there  until  to-morrow.  You 
see  the  earth-born  are  restless  in  the  ether. 
They  breathe  not  well  in  too  fine  air.  I 
prefer  the  Elysian  fields.  Here  at  least  you 
can  find  papyrus,  and  a  swan's  quill,  and  the 
ink  of  violets.  That  is  why  the  gods  are 
far  less  happy  in  their  isolation  on  Olympus, 
than  the  tenants  of  the  blissful  islands 
where  swift-footed  Achilles,  and  Diomed, 
Athena's  darling,  are. 

Ah,  that  page,  one  page  in  your  letter  f 
it  drowned  me  in  delight.  You  knew  it 
would  ;  you  meant  to  drown  me. 

You  will  not  think  it  strange  when  I  tell 
you  that  I  love  you  so  deeply  and  so  truly 
that  I  have  often,  in  my  thoughts,  given 
you  to  other  men — dead  men — that  would 
have  been  worthy  of  your  smile.  Once  I 
gave  you  to  Alexander,  in  the  hour  of  his 
radiance,  at  Issus,  while  he  still  had  the 
heart,  as  well  as  the  prowess,  of  a  demi-god. 
Ah,  had  it  been  you,  and  not  that  other 
whom  he  found  in  the  tent  of  Artaxerxes, 
he  would  never  have  sent  you  to  your 
father.  He  would  have  found  such  mag- 
nanimity impossible. 


HIS  LETTERS  43 

At-  another  time  I  dealt  with  you  in  a 
fashion  still  more  adequate.  Then  it  was 
Julius  that  I  thought  of,  the  fateful,  invin- 
cible, inscrutable ;  the  famous  man  of  all 
this  world.  I  could  see  his  grave  face  lifted 
from  the  tablets  where  his  hand  still  held 
the  stilus.  I  could  see  his  eyes  blaze  as 
they  fell  on  one  infinitely  nobler,  aye,  and 
more  fateful  than  that  sweet  serpent  of  the 
Nile.  "  But  no,"  I  thought,  "  I  will  not  give 
her  to  any  man  of  that  type.  A  poet  would 
appreciate  her  better.  I  will  let  Catullus  see 
her,"  I  said;  "yes,  Catullus  in  his  youth, 
before  Lesbia  had  taught  him  to  think  evil 
of  women.  Then,  indeed,  he  would  have 
made  the  '  Epithalamium'  a  matchless  mas- 
terpiece." 

On  the  whole,  though,  I  concluded  to 
give  you  to  Chastelard.  You  would  have 
pitied  him.  You  are  not  like  that  deadly 
witch  of  Scotland  whose  white  bosom  hid 
only  a  stone.  You  could  never  have  stood 
by  and  seen  him  go  to  his  death,  and  not 
have  made  one  cry,  one  moan  of  agony, 
responsive  to  the  reproachful  yearning  of 
his  latest  upward  look, 


44  HIS  LETTERS 

How  glad  I  am  these  men  are  dead,  for 
there  are  limits  to  unselfishness  !  Luckily, 
there  is  no  one  living  that  is  fit  for  you  to 
touch  with  your  gloved  hand. 

Until  to-day  I  had  thought  that  the  sweet- 
est thing  I  ever  read,  or  dreamed  I  had 
read,  in  a  lady's  letter,  was  a  small  word  of 
four  letters  that  slipped,  as  it  seemed,  un- 
premeditated from  her  pen.  I  am  not  likely 
to  forget  the  context.  It  ran  like  this : 
"  What  has  happened  to  us,  dear,  do  you 
know?"  The  italics  are  mine.  Long  I 
pondered  whether  the  word  were  meant  or 
no.  Being  pessimistic  I  finally  answered 
in  the  negative.  But,  for  all  that,  it  would 
keep  ringing  in  my  ears.  But  what  do 
you  think  happened  to  me  when  I  heard 
from  the  lips  of  the  same  lady  that  I  might 
speak  frankly — often — the  only  word  that 
speaks  my  heart  ?  It  matters  not  with  what 
wistful  and  tender  ingenuity  one  may  seek 
to  suggest  the  deepest  and  most  devouring 
of  the  passions.  There  is  no  periphrasis, 
no  synonym  that  can  compass  the  full  sig- 
nificance of  the  simple  word,  I  love  you— 
the  one  word  which,  for  one  long  second,  as 


HIS  LETTERS  45 

with  a  jet  of  ecstasy,  surrenders,  empties, 
exhausts,  denudes  the  soul. 

Your  hygienic  counsels  are  highly  edi- 
fying. Would  I  like  you  to  take  care  of 
me?  Why,  yes,  if  I  were  quite  sure  that 
the  nurse  would  prove  indulgent,  and  that 
the  physician  would  make  a  free  use  of 
stimulants.  I  should  hate  to  be  fed  on 
gruel  and  kept  at  a  low  temperature.  So 
your  rules  are  strict.  I  care  not  though 
they  were  constrictive  even ;  but  I  never 
could  comply  unless  the  author  would  per- 
sonally supervise  the  processes.  Then,  I 
am  sure  they  could  not  fail.  There  is 
nothing,  I  think,  ails  me  that  a  wise  leech 
might  not  cure.  And  by  the  way,  I  love 
not  that  old  man  who  was  allowed  to  trace 
out  the  tell-tale  lines  upon  your  palm  ;  aye, 
ami  touch  the  lovely  hillock  that  swells  just 
below  the  thumb.  I  trust  he,  too,  is  dead. 
He  ought  to  be.  The  men  also  that  have 
danced  with  you  ;  I  have  killed  them  all  in 
my  fierce  mind.  As  for  that  natatory  cos- 
tume, if  any  man  but  Neptune  has  beheld 
it,  I  hope  he  got  the  cramp  and  sank.  Oh, 
I  have  a  dark  suspicion  !  .  .  .  But  I  bias- 


4<>  HIS  LETTERS 

pheme.  Alas  !  you  made  me,  you  deliber- 
ately made  me.  There  are  a  dozen  dif- 
ferent men  in  me,  and  you  know  how  to 
dominate  them  all.  But  one  chord  you 
alone  can  touch :  you  alone  can  make  me 
think  of  summer,  of  the  songs  of  birds,  the 
scent  of  gardens,  the  haunting  accents  of 
the  poets,  all  the  beauty  and  the  mystery  of 
life.  I  might  love  you  in  a  hundred  ways, 
but  it  is  for  this  that  I  adore.  It  is  when  I 
think  of  this  that  I  best  measure  the  pro- 
foundness of  my  debt  to  you.  I  love  the 
peri,  she  that  stands  at  heaven's  gate  dis- 
consolate, even  better  than  I  love  the 
woman.  And  also,  when  I  think  of  this, 
and  forecast  the  tragic  chances  and  more 
woeful  changes  of  man's  lot,  I  question 
whether  life  can  ever  hold  a  better  hour  for 
me  than  this.  That  was  a  high  teaching  of 
the  Stoics,  that  it  ill  becomes  a  man  to  stand 
with  front  lowered,  at  death's  mercy ;  but 
that  af  his  own  judgment  seat  he  should 
decide  when  he  would  die.  It  surely  were 
the  part  of  wisdom  to  select  the  hour 
when  one  is  loftiest  and  happiest.  But 
alas !  those  austere,  clear-eyed  ones  never 


HIS  LETTERS  47 

could  have  been  in  love ;  they  knew  not 
with  what  desperation  a  lover  clings  to 
life. 

Once  a  lady  asked  me  what  words  in  all 
my  letters  I  thought  that  she  liked  best. 
Were  they  not  those  four  words  in  which  I 
had  defined  her  mind's  rare  quality,  the 
motive  that  swayed  her,  the  key  to  her  life  ? 
Not  in  vain  had  I  probed  her,  but  with  a 
fond,  sure  instinct.  From  me  the  Sphinx 
cannot  lock  up  her  riddle.  I  play  GEdipus 
too  well.  I  guessed  it,  and  therefore  it  was 
that  I  escaped — if  indeed  my  escape  be  cer- 
tain— the  fate  of  them  that  missed  the  se- 
cret. Is  the  lady  answered  rightly?  It 
was  a  wise  Russian  who  said,  "  The  head 
vaunteth  a  freedom  which  the  wiser  heart 
disclaims."  I  thank  you  for  translating  it. 
It  had  else  been  to  me  a  sealed  oracle.  I 
am  glad  that  you  are  more  learned  than  I ; 
for  I  would  have  you  in  all  things  loftier 
and  larger,  as  well  I  knew  you  were  in  most. 
I  can  see  best  when  I  look  up.  But  in  one 
thing  you  can  never  come  within  gun-shot, 
eye-shot  of  me !  You  can  never  feel  for  me 
a  tenth  part  of  what  I  feel  for  you.  You 


48 

will  never,  never,  never  say  to  me  what  I 
say  now — I  love  you. 

Letter  Sixteenth. 

Your  letter  of  Saturday  has  this  moment 
reached  me.  But  for  one  word  in  it  I  should 
be  willing,  I  should  wish,  to  die  now  ;  for 
well  I  know  that  I  shall  never  be  so  happy 
again.  You  are  going  away.  Good  God  ! 
can  you  suspect  what  that  word  means  to 
me  ?  And  yet  I  am  glad  of  an  opportunity 
of  proving  what  my  feeling  is  for  you  ;  also 
glad  to  suffer  by  anything  that  you  wish  to 
do.  Oh,  when  you  told  me  about  your 
health  you  wrung  my  heart  !  Why  would 
I  hurt  you,  I  that  love  you  ?  I  that  would 
even  be  content  never  to  see  you,  never  to 
write  another  word  to  you,  if  only  every 
night  and  morning  some  strange  pre- 
science would  tell  me  that  you  were  well 
and  happy.  Oh,  you  can't  believe  me. 
It  is  the  curse  of  my  wayward  life  that 
now,  when  I  would  give  my  soul  to  be 
believed,  I  am  not.  And  yet  people  go 
to  church  and  pretend  to  believe  in  Mary 
of  Magdala,  and  they  will  not  see  that 


HIS  LETTERS  49 

in  the  throes  of  a  great  passion  a  man  too 
can  be  born  again. 

Why,  the  fools  and  blind  drove  Hugo's 
"  Marion  de  Lorme  "  off  the  stage,  because 
they  could  see  nothing  but  coarseness  in  a 
line  that  might  have  been  murmured  long 
since  beside  the  sea  of  Galilee  : 

Et  F  amour  ma  refait  une  virginite. 

Of  course  you  have  heard  things  about 
me  ;  you  may  hear  more.  Some  of  them 
may  have  been  true,  too,  once — I  know  not 
— but  they  are  not  true  now,  not  now. 
Oh,  I  have  lots  of  enemies — thank  God  for 
that !  They  have  kept  me  alive  by  quick- 
ening the  instinct  of  warfare,  until  a  feeling 
fell  on  me  so  incomparably  higher  that  I 
forgot  all  about  them. 

How  could  I  speak  of  you  to  A.?  It 
makes  my  heart  beat  like  a  flail  even  to 
hear  your  name  mentioned,  and  I  know 
that  I  grow  red  to  hear  it.  I  despise  A., 
and  he  knows  it.  I  have  seen  him  but  once 
for  a  second  in  a  year,  and  then,  when  he 
put  out  a  hand,  I  gave  him  a  slow  single 
finger.  L.  is  a  very  different  man,  but  him 
I  see  as  little  as  possible.  I  have  seen  him 


$0  HIS  LETTERS 

but  thrice  in  a  twelve-month,  and  then  for  a 
reason  not  directly  connected  with  himself. 

I  am  puzzled  to  know  what  question  it 
is  about  your  art  which  you  Will  put  to  me, 
and  which  I  am  to  answer,  right  or  wrong. 

As  you  yourself  do  not  know  the  meaning 
of  your  pictures  as  well  as  I  do,  it  is  a  hun- 
dred to  one  that  I  guess  right. 

Ah,  a  great  sadness  clutches  me — you 
will  never  care  for  me  ! 

Letter  Seventeenth. 

WEDNESDAY,  DAWN. 

Did  I  not  divine  you,  long  since,  far-off, 
to  be  an  angel  ?  Did  I  not  know  that  you 
maligned  yourself  when  you  told  me  that 
you  were  not  "  very  gentle  "  ?  What  but 
an  angel  of  gentleness  and  heavenly  com- 
passion would  have  had  the  tender  fore- 
thought to  provide  me,  in  that  precious 
little  note,  with  a  talisman — a  talisman 
against  the  doubts,  misgivings,  loneliness, 
sickness  of  hope  deferred,  that  would  have 
made  those  weeks  of  your  absence  a  very 
hell  to  me.  Now  that  I  have  that,  and  can 
clasp  it,  kiss  it,  stare  at  it  until  my  brain 


&IS  LETTERS  51 

reels,  my  eyes  swim,  why  !  I  can  be  almost 
happy. 

There  is  still  one  thing — a  little  thing — 
that,  in  your  boundless  kindness,  you  might 
do  for  poor  me.  There  must  be  in  existence 
somewhere  a  photograph,  a  photograph  of 
yourself,  or  at  least  of  your  portrait,  of  the 
sweetest  thing  that  breathes  upon  this  earth. 
Oh  give  it  to  me,  give  it !  It  will  help  me  to 
bear  what  is  to  come.  I  know  well  how  a 
splendidly  vitalized  woman  is  libeled  by  a 
photograph  ;  but  it  will  be  better,  so  much 
better  than  nothing.  And  with  the  fires 
darting  from  my  own  eyes,  as  they  probe  it, 
I  can  inject  vitality  and  splendor  into  it. 
Don't  say  you  can't,  will  not.  Do  it,  do  it, 
for  the  sake  of  him  whose  life-blood  you 
have  drained  a  hundred  times. 

I  once  heard  someone  say  that  you  had 
a  sweet  little  ear.  Do  you  think  I  did  not 
guess  it,  with  all  its  deep  significance  ? 
Ah,  nature  fashioned  you  in  her  fondest, 
maddest  mood.  In  a  thrill  of  terror  lest 
the  earth  should  be  dispeopled,  she  evoked 
you,  to  reassure  herself  ! 

That  promised  summer  night!     It  floats 


5*  HIS  LETTERS 

in  my  enchanted  vision  ever.  I  had  often 
dreamed  of  it,  dreamed  as  we  dream  of 
heaven,  long  before  I  had  any  hope  that  it 
could  ever  be.  Ah,  to  sit  by  your  side  near 
the  water,  to  see  the  wind  play  with  your 
hair,  to  watch  with  fond,  furtive  glances 
the  heaving  of  your  bosom,  to  drink  the 
soft  tones  of  your  voice,  to  gaze  with  you 
over  the  waves,  not  more  inscrutable  than 
are  my  darling's  eyes,  or  into  a  sky  less 
fathomless  for  all  its  depths,  than  my  affec- 
tion !  And,  then,  perhaps — all  at  once — 
our  eyes  would  meet,  our  hands  would 
clutch  and  scorch  each  other,  for  one 
moment  you  might  love  me,  and  our  souls 
would  rush  together  at  the  meeting  of  our 
lips.  That  picture,  oh,  that  picture  !  when 
I  see  it  I  can  write  no  more.  My  hand 
trembles ;  I  can  write  no  more  to-night. 

Letter  Eighteenth. 

Those  terrible  days,  Thursday  and  Fri- 
day, when  I  knew  not  even  where  you  were  ! 
But  I  will  not  say  another  word  about  it.  I 
shudder  to  think  that,  shortly,  you  may  say, 
"  Why,  this  is  getting  to  be  a  terrible  bore  ! 


HIS  LETTERS  53 

Does  the  man  think  that  I  have  nothing  to 
do  but  write  letters  to  him  and  listen  to  his 
driveling?"  That  is  sure  to  come  ;  let  me 
not  hasten  it. 

I  have  a  letter  written  on  square  white 
sheets  ;  a  sweet  letter,  though  there  was  a 
drop  of  bitter.  It  spoke  of  a  surmise  which 
had  "swept  over  your  consciousness  invol- 
untarily." When  I  first  read  that,  I  wanted 
to  seize  the  pen  and  use  it  as  a  knife.  But 
I  have  sworn  never,  never  to  say  one  harsh 
word  to  you.  If  I  speak  now,  it  is  with 
nothing  but  tenderness  and  sorrow  in  my 
heart.  You  will  continue  then  to  accuse 
me  of  baseness  ?  I  say  it  not  angrily,  but 
softly.  Does  not  such  a  surmise  imply  that, 
— for  a  moment,  at  least — you  have  believed 
me  to  be  telling  you  untruths  ?  It  is  not 
by  lies  I  wish  to  win  you  ;  you  may  attract, 
but  you  cannot  keep  a  heart  by  such  de- 
vices. I  could  not  love  a  woman  such — as 
— well,  never  mind — if  I  felt  tempted  to  be 
untruthful  to  her.  Don't  you  think  that 
soon  or  late  a  man's  wounded  self-respect 
would  hunger  to  avenge  itself  ?  But,  dear, 
I  have  said  a  hundred  times  more  than  I 


54  HIS  LETTERS 

meant  to  say.  I  do  not  believe  you  thought 
it ;  I  do  not,  really.  If  I  did,  I  should 
choke.  I  could  not  speak,  I  could  not  write 
to  you  ;  for  how  could  one  write  what  is  not 
believed  ? 

And  now,  since  I  have  begun  so  badly, 
may  I  go  on  and  tell  you  something  which 
weighs  like  a  pall  upon  my  mind  ?  You 
have  asked  me  some  searching  questions; 
that  is  your  prerogative  ;  but  let  me  just  put 
tentatively  a  little  one  on  my  own  account. 
You  need  not  answer  it.  Indeed,  your 
silence  would  be  an  explicit  answer.  Let 
me  tell  you  of  a  thought  that  clove  me  like 
an  arrow,  as  I  lay  awake  one  night,  since 
your  departure.  Suddenly,  I  thought,  "  She 
is  too  wise  !  "  I  sprang  up  and  got  some  of 
your  letters.  I  ran  over  them  with  a  new 
purpose  and  a  most  penetrating  eye.  Every 
now  and  then  I  marked  a  passage,  and  when 
I  had  finished,  I  went  back  and  scrutinized 
those  passages  with  the  utmost  care.  Ah, 
never,  I  think,  was  microscope  with  greater 
power  invoked  to  give  up  the  inmost  mean- 
ing of  a  woman's  words.  I  compared  these 
passages  with  some  that  I  remembered  in 


HIS  LETTERS  55 

former  letters  of  yours  ;  and  then  I  said  to 
myself,  "  There  is  no  German  metaphysician 
can  evolve  the  myriad  turns  and  phases  of 
one  passion  from  the  depths  of  his  inner 
consciousness  ! "  What  then  ?  Why,  then 
comes  the  question  which,  posed,  answers 
itself :  "  How  many  times  has  she  been 
madly,  utterly  in  love  ? "  To  me  it  is  an 
interesting  question,  because  I  know  from 
sad  experience  that  a  man  can  love  but 
once ;  though  he  should  not  be  blamed  for 
mistaking  the  dawn  for  the  noon  sky.  But 
I  know  this,  that  one  man,  not  devoid  of 
imagination  either,  could  never  have  written 
certain  words,  except  in  the  last  six  weeks 
of  his  life.  Don't  pay  any  attention  to  this 
question.  That,  as  you  once  told  me,  is  the 
best  way. 

Don't  write  to  me ;  I  am  miserable. 

Letter  Nineteenth. 

I  am  writing  to  you  at  five  o'clock,  in  the 
morning.  I  have  been  restless ;  perhaps 
in  written  speech  I  shall  find  a  sort  of 
calm. 

You  said  in  one  of  your  letters  that  you 


5<5  HIS  LETTERS 

might  have  to  pause,  to  stop,  to  chill  me ; 
in  another,  that  the  day  might  "come  when  I 
would  hate  you.  That  day  can  never  come. 
But  I  passed  through  many  phases  of  feeling, 
yesterday,  and  at  last,  when  I  had  to  go  to 
bed  without  a  line  from  you,  I  was  chilled 
indeed.  It  had  seemed  impossible  to  me 
that  you  could  leave  me  with  nothing  but 
a  telegram  that,  taken  by  itself,  distressed 
me.  I  could  not  be  so  unkind  to  you. 

In  your  Monday's  letter  you  forbade  me 
to  write  to  you.  I  read  the  words  carefully 
again  last  night  before  I  burned  the  note.  I 
burned  every  scrap  of  your  last  letters  last 
night.  I  haven't  a  line  of  yours  now.  I 
know  this  is  what  you  wish,  but  I  did  it 
in  a  gust  of  anger,  and  I  have  been  so  sorry 
since.  Oh,  I  have  such  a  bad  temper!  If 
you  knew  how  bad  it  is,  you  would  detest 
me.  But  it  is  dreadful  to  be  chilled !  If 
I  must  die,  let  me  be  scorched  to  death. 
Ah  !  I  think  that  you,  at  least,  would  feel 
some  pity  if  you  knew  what  an  agony 
it  is  to  be  in  love.  To  pant  and  writhe 
incessantly  with  hope  unsatisfied  ;  to  stretch 
out  one's  arms  wildly,  mutely,  and  clasp 


HIS  LETTERS  57 

nothing.  Oh,  you  cannot  guess  even 
what  I  mean.  You  are  an  icicle;  you  have 
told  me  so.  You  must  be,  or  you  could  not 
talk  of  chilling  a  man  in  such  a  plight  as 
mine. 

Is  it  because  I  tell  you  that  I  love  you, 
love  you  ;  that  for  the  first  time  in  my  life  I 
know  what  love  is  ;  is  that  the  reason  that 
you  say,  "  I  may  have  to  chill  you  "  ? 

Oh,  why,  why  don't  you  put  me  out  of 
my  pain  ?  I  wouldn't  let  a  dog  suffer  as 
you  make  me. 

Later,  Eight  d clock. — Four  hours  more  ! 
The  postman  has  come  and  gone.  Still 
not  a  line  from  you.  My  God  !  don't  you 
ever  mean  to  write  to  me  again  ?  Must  I 
live  through  another  day  like  yesterday  ? 
Have  mercy. 

Letter  Twentieth. 

I  have  your  letter.  Heavens,  how  much 
I  have  to  say !  Shall  I  say  it  well  ?  I 
know  not,  and  I  care  not ;  only  let  me  say 
it  quickly.  First,  let  me  whisper  to  you — 
no,  let  me  darken  the  room  first  ;  there — 
give  me  your  ear,  though  it  is  hard  to  do, 


58  HIS  LETTERS 

for  I  am  on  my  knees,  not  by  your  side. 
Let  me  whisper  to  you,  oh,  so  low  that  you 
yourself  shall  scarcely  hear  it,  that  for  me 
you  have  no  secret,  no  surprise.  When  I 
saw  your  pictures  they  produced  an  extra- 
ordinary effect  on  me.  I  pierced,  riddled 
them  with  my  eyes.  At  last  I  thought  I 
guessed  the  secret  of  their  strangely  complex, 
mysterious,  resistless  power  over  my  imagi- 
nation. "Why,"  I  thought,  "she  holds  the 
brush  as  of  a  vestal  virgin  who  has  dreamed 
she  was  Faustina.  My  God,  what  a  celes- 
tial, maddening,  destroying  combination  ? 
But  it  cannot  be.  Such  things  don't 
happen,  don't  exist  except  in  the  crater  of 
your  own  volcanic  imagination.  You  have 
given  woman  a  million  charms  in  your 
fancy,  to  which  she  has  not,  in  fact,  the 
slightest  title,  and  now,  just  because  this 
one,  whom  you  have  not  even  seen,  exerts, 
in  her  art  alone,  on  your  keen,  quivering 
senses — for  they  are  keen  enough,  they  are 
that — a  strange,  nameless  sorcery,  you  must 
straightway  proceed  to  credit  her  with  in- 
credible fascinations,  which  the  Greeks, 
in  their  wildest  ecstasy,  never  dared  as- 


HIS  LETTERS  59 

cribe  to  but  one  goddess.  .  .  And  so  you 
haunted  me ;  and  I  have  asked  myself 
strange,  foolish  questions ;  and  I  have  laid 
traps  for  you  ;  oh,  such  obvious  traps,  they 
could  not  check  your  little  foot  more  than 
a  second.  At  the  worst  you  would  only 
feel  that  you  had  tripped  over  a  violet  ; 
and  you  did  trip  over  one.  Ah,  but  I 
think  you  saw  it,  and  laughed  gayly !  .  . 
"  Oh  yes,"  I  said,  "  she  is  the  Sphinx  to  all 
other  men,  but  I  ha.ve  guessed  her  riddle, 
and  therefore  it  may  be  that  I  shall  live 
and  not  die."  But  presently  came  doubt 
again.  "  Outside  of  myths  and  legends,"  I 
said  to  myself,  "no  such  bliss  could  come  to 
a  man  ".  .  .  and  then  I  rushed  to  the  other 
extreme.  I  was  angry  with  you  for  having 
actually  made  me  believe  in  an  impossi- 
bility. I  fiercely,  demanded,  "  How  many 
times  has  she  madly,  utterly  loved  ?  "  For 
I  thought,  "  Now,  if  she  has  had  lovers,  she 
will  be  angry  and  will  show  her  anger. 
But  if  ...  if  she  has  not  loved — my  God, 
it  is  impossible !  Yet  if  ...  admitting 
the  impossibility  a  moment,  she  will  give 
me  a  strange,  enigmatic  answer;  she  will 


60  HIS  LETTERS 

not  be  angry  or  reproachful  ;  she  will 
simply  say  to  herself,  '  Ah,  he  is  puz- 
zled, and  no  wonder  ;  I  am  puzzled  my- 
self.'" 

But  scarcely  had  the  letter  gone  before 
I  tried  to  overtake  it.  I  looked  at  your 
portrait,  at  its  mouth  and  chin  ;  and  I 
knew  that,  should  I  get  that  ambiguous 
answer,  I  should  be  conscience-smitten;  that 
never,  never  should  I  entirely  get  over  it. 
That  was  what  I  me^ant  when  I  told  you 
that  I  felt  as  if  I  had  committed  that  sin 
against  the  Holy  Ghost,  and  it  was  sacri- 
lege to  dare  to  love  a  saint  ;  and  yet  I  do 
dare  to  love  her  a  million,  million  times  for 
that  treasure  her  heart,  which  she  keeps  in 
store  for  him  she  loves.  Oh,  darling,  dar- 
ling, I  am  fainting !  do  you  mean  to  give 
it  to  me  ?  Tell  me,  tell  me !  see  me  only 
when  you  like,  as  far  off  as  you  will,  but 
tell  me  instantly,  for  God's  sake,  that  of 
late  you  have  meant,  that  you  do  mean, 
some  day,  to  give  it  to  me.  Oh,  tell  me, 
tell  me ;  do  you  want  me  to  die  of  love  at 
this  moment  ?  I  am  dying.  .  .  . 


HIS  LETTERS  61 

Letter  Twenty-first. 

I  wrote  you  a  long  letter  last  night,  but 
this  morning  I  won't  send  it,  lest  it  should 
give  you  some  pain.  It  was  a  cry  of  agony 
and  of  farewell.  I  meant  to  send  back 
with  it  that  little  thing  which  I  had  worn 
all  the  days,  and  kept  crushed  against  my 
mouth  and  nostrils  all  the  nights.  >But 
when  I  found  it  close  to  my  mouth  this 
morning  I  could  not  send  it  back  just  yet. 

But  I  cannot  write  much  this  morning. 
I  am  trying,  trying  to  understand  why  God 
permits  a  woman  like  yourself  to  live,  who 
is  at  once  so  lovely  and  so  cruel.  What 
crime  have  I  committed  that  I  should  be 
made  the  victim  of  your  cruelty  ?  No,  I 
cannot  write  just  yet.  I  am  trying  to  rec- 
oncile the  words  you  speak  with  other 
things  that  seem  to  show  a  tender  heart. 

Don't  you  think,  on  the  whole,  you  had 
better  unchain  me  and  let  me  go  ?  I  am 
going  away  on  Friday,  at  ten — that  is,  I 
leave  my  house  at  that  hour.  How  much 
do  you  really  care,  I  wonder.  How  much 
can  a  woman,  who  speaks  such  words  de- 


62  HIS  LETTERS 

liberately,  care  about  any  human  being  ex. 
cept  herself  ? 

Letter  Twenty-second. 

TUESDAY. 

Ah,  yesterday  will  live  forever  in  my 
memory  !  Your  letter !  Such  a  letter ! 
What  would  you  rdo  with  me  ?  Do  you 
want  to  destroy  me  in  advance?  Is  that  a 
wise  economy  of  love  ?  But  you  have 
never  said  you  loved  me.  You  don't  know 
whether  you  do  or  not.  That-  was  a  dread- 
ful word  to  me.  I  must  have  that  .  .  . 
nothing  less.  Well,  I  know  that  there  are 
other  things  you  could  give ;  things  I 
would  sell  my  soul  to  get.  But  seest  thou 
not ;  could  I  but  gain  thy  heart,  I  should 
not  need  to  sell  my  soul  to  get  them  ? 
They  would  all  be  mine  then  forever,  inde- 
feasibly,  unshakably.  As  things  are,  it  was 
an  appalling  truth  that  you  uttered,  and 
don't  think  I  have  not  foreboded  it.  Ah, 
your  words,  "To-morrow  you  may  do  or 
say  or  think  something  that  shall  rob  you 
of  your  power  and  me  of  an  illusion."  Oh, 
perhaps  I  have  done  that  already  in  the 


HIS  LETTERS  63 


little  space  since  those  words  fell.  If  I  had 
your  heart,  nothing  I  could  do  or  say  or 
think  could  dislodge  me  ;  for  at  worst  it 
could  be  but  a  blunder,  repented  of  as  soon 
as  done. 

How  then  am  I  to  win  the  heart  which  is 
still  free  ?  It  must  be  free,  since  it  would 
instantly  recognize  the  loss  of  freedom  ?  I 
can  only  do  it  by  convincing  you  beyond 
the  possibility  of  misconception  that  I  love 
you  better  than  I  love  myself.  I  must  win 
it  by  self-sacrifice  ;  there  is  no  other  way. 
Oh,  I  don't  think  that  my  self-sacrifice 
would  win  the  laurels  of  Philistia;  my 
notion  of  altruism  would  seem  to  the 
Philistines,  I  imagine,  quite  indistinguish- 
able from  naughtiness. 

I  really  do  not  believe  you  know  that  if 
some  day  in  a  moment  of  feminine  soft- 
ness and  ineffable  pity,  you  gave  your  love 
to  me,  you  would  do  yourself  the  least 
harm  in  the  world.  Perhaps  I  should 
account  it  the  noblest  of  impulses.  If  a 
man  doesn't  thirst  day  and  night  to  pos- 
sess, in  the  completest  sense  of  the  word, 
the  woman  he  pretends  to  love,  he  does  not 


64  HIS  LETTERS 

love  her.  It  is  only  in  the  time  and  cir- 
cumstances that  one  can  test  the  depth  and 
force  of  his  unselfishness.  Do  you  remem- 
ber telling  me,  in  one  of  those  burned 
letters,  that  a  woman  who  envied  you  your 
beauty  and  your  intellect,  and  I  know  not 
what  besides,  said  to  someone,  who  told 
you,  "  As  for  the  fair  Heloise  she  invited 
him,  flattered  him,  completely  charmed  and 
dazzled  him,  and  so,  in  art,  he  is  her 
friend."  That  you  had  charmed  and  daz- 
zled was  so  true ;  the  woman's  instinct 
was  unerring ;  nothing  but  the  cold  facts 
could  perplex,  baffle,  and  confound  her. 
Who  would  believe  that  I  had  not  been 
at  your  house,  or  in  Capua,  or  the  Lord 
knows  where  ?  that  you  do  not  know  me ; 
that  we  have  not  met  ?  ...  It  is  my 
business,  then,  as  he  that  loves  you,  to 
do  that  which  you  are  too  generous  to 
suggest,  and  to  deny  myself  that  on  which 
I  have  been  feeding  ever  since  you  went 
away — the  hope  of  seeing  you  immediately 
after  your  return.  The  cackling  and  the 
babbling  will  soon  pass  away.  In  three 
weeks,  at  furthest,  they  will  have  put  all 


HIS  LETTERS  65 

their  prying,  spiteful  questions,  and  they 
will  have  got  their  answer.  Then,  if  by 
that  time  you  have  not  forgotten  me,  I 
will  implore  you  not  to  punish  me  because 
I  loved  you  better  than  myself,  but  to  let 
me  come  and  look  at  you,  as  I  now  look 
at  your  picture,  perhaps  ...  to  take  your 
hand.  .  .  . 

Letter  Twenty-third. 

One  hour  after  I  posted  a  letter  yes- 
terday I  would  have  let  a  hand  be  lopped 
off  to  recover  it !  I  do  not  write,  my  pen  is 
driven  by  the  mood  of  the  moment.  There 
is  something  in  my  brain  that  forces  me,  if 
I  speak  at  all,  so  to  speak  that  words  shall 
seem  things,  realities,  and  that  a  mood  shall 
live  upon  the  paper  even  as  it  lives  in  me. 
So  in  certain  moods  I  needs  must  say 
words  that  shock  and  horrify.  .  .  Ah, 
your  moods  all  ought  to  be  transcribed, 
when  you  write  to  one  who  cares  for  you, 
for  they  are  all  beautiful  and  lofty.  Even 
your  kiss  would  be  that  of  an  angel,  but 
with  me  it  is  not  so,  and  of  some  moods  of 
mine  you  shall  never  more  behold  a  sign. 


66  HIS  LETTERS 

In  these  letters  that  came  to  me  this 
morning  and  that  I  have  read  with  tears, 
you  asked  me  to  swear  on  the  honor  of  a 
man  who  wishes  to  respect  himself,  that  I 
will  never  again  write  to  you  letters  like 
those  I  sent  to  you  on  the  morning  when 
you  went  away.  I  had  already  sworn ; 
now  I  repeat  the  oath.  But  that  is  not  all 
I  swear.  In  one  of  those  dear  letters  you 
say  a  word  that  flew  straight  to  my  heart, 
to  all  that  is  left  of  generous  and  noble  in 
my  nature.  You  said,  "  let  me  lean  upon 
you."  "  O  God!"  I  cried,  "how  can  she 
lean  upon  me  unless  I  make  myself  some- 
thing better?  By  Heaven,  I  will  try!" 
Now  listen ;  I  swear  to  you  that  never 
again,  whatever  may  be  my  thoughts,  will 
I  say  to  you  by  letter,  or  should  I  ever 
see  you,  by  word  of  mouth,  a  syllable  that 
I  would  not  have  my  mother  hear ;  not 
one !  not  one !  Oh,  believe  me,  there  are 
still  in  me  some  possibilities  of  grandeur, 
but  you,  you  only  can  evoke  them.  I 
am  going  to  give  you  a  consummate  and 
decisive  and  incredible  proof  of  what  I  am 
capable  of  doing  in  the  way  of  self-abase- 


HIS  LETTERS  67 

ment.  For  days  I  have  been  dizzy  with 
the  thought  that  perhaps  I  should  see 
you  soon.  Well,  I  renounce  it !  Were  I 
to  see  you  now — now,  or  until  I  have 
gained  more  self-control,  and  forced  my- 
self to  think  of  you  as  a  saint  only — you 
could  never,  never  lean  on  me.  I  want  you 
to  think  of  me  with  honor  and  with  implicit 
trust.  Oh,  it  must  be  better,  better,  better 
in  the  end,  when  one  must  die,  to  know 
that  one  has  been  a  martyr,  than  to  have 
plunged  in  earthly  bliss. 

I  read  thee  deeply,  truly,  my  beloved. 
It  is  only  on  the  lovely  surface  that  you 
are  one  of  the  women  who  madden  and 
enslave.  At  heart,  at  heart  you  are  a 
seraph  imprisoned  thus — I  know  not  how — 
and  I  know,  yes,  I  foresee,  that  you  would 
hate  yourself  and  abhor  me,  if  on  awaken- 
ing, some  morning,  you  should  find  dust 
upon  your  wings.  Not  through  me  shall 
one  fleck  rest  there,  not  one  fleck,  no,  not 
one. 

Later. — You  have  asked  me  another  of 
your  searching  questions.  Oh,  what  an 
adorable  intellect  is  yours !  This  one  I 


68  ///5  LETTERS 

will  try  to  answer  ;  and  I  will  do  it,  as  I 
will  always  write  hereafter,  in  words  that 
a  child  might  read.  What  an  exquisitely 
sensitive  and  delicate  instrument  is  your 
heart  !  I  used  to  think  mine  sensitive,  but 
it  is  a  dull,  dense  thing  to  yours.  One 
word  more  before  I  follow  that  probing 
question  to  the  deep  place  where  it  is  quiv- 
ering. What  is  the  past  to  me  ?  to  you  ? 
I  simply  never  lived  till  now.  I  cannot 
conceive  myself  living  in  a  world  which  you 
have  ceased  to  glorify.  I  am  nothing, 
know  nothing  but  the  present  and  the  fu- 
ture, and  they  are  what  you  choose  to  make 
them.  You  are  the  first,  the  only  woman  I 
ever  saw — the  only  mortal  thing  embody- 
ing what  I  knew  and  felt  must  exist  some- 
where— the  beauteous,  mystic  combination 
that  haunts  us  on  the  convases  of  the 
Renaissance  ;  the  being  at  once  ethereal- 
ized  and  carnalized  ;  the  divine  mystery 
that  has  the  body  of  a  lovely  woman,  and 
yet  whose  wings  are  fully  grown,  Oh, 
until  one  has  seen  those  wings  growing  and 
growing  there — he  has  not  lived,  he  was 
not  born. 


HIS  LETTERS  69 

And  yet  one  delaying  word  !  Of  course 
I  want  you  to  pour  out  all  moods  to  me. 
Why,  that  is  a  kind  of  love,  the  best  kind, 
and  I  will  be  so  grateful  for  it,  and  try  to 
feel  that  such  love  is  enough.  Never  think 
that  I  would  wish  to  cramp  or  dwarf  or 
stifle  you,  or  check  with  a  word  or  thought 
one  of  your  sweet,  wayward  fluctuations.  It 
would  never  enter  into  my  head  to  wish  to 
"adapt  you  to  myself."  Why,  it  is  not  my- 
self I  love  at  all — it's  you.  I  will 'prove  it 
to  you  in  a  memorable  way ;  I  will  "  force 
myself  to  have  strength,"  you  shall  see. 

And  now  that  question,  "  Do  I  think 
marriage,  or  the  same  thing,  kills  love 
always?"  I  will  at  least  answer  truthfully, 
first  from  the  man's  point  of  view  ;  then  I 
will  try  to  seize  the  woman's,  though  for 
me  that  will  be  difficult.  Granting  the  ex- 
istence in  a  man  of  an  organization  suf- 
ficiently delicate  by  nature,  and  sufficiently 
enriched  and  attuned  by  cultivation  to  ap- 
preciate a  woman  of  absolute  refinement — I 
assert,  with  perfect  confidence,  that  whether 
or  no  fruition  strikes  the  death-knell  of  that 
which  sought  it  depends  upon  the  woman. 


?o  HIS  LETTERS 

If  what  such  a  man  as  I  have  indicated 
feels  for  a  given  woman  be  a  mere  caprice, 
or  any  of  the  little  passions  that  have  their 
root  in  curiosity,  vanity,  or  mere  desire, 
there  can  be  no  doubt  whatever  that  poses- 
sion  means  a  more  or  less  rapid,  but  in  any 
case  inevitable,  refrigeration  and  decay. 
But  whose  fault  is  it  that  the  man  felt  only 
one  of  those  emotions  that,  by  the  law  of 
their  existence,  are  easily,  quickly  satisfied  ? 
It  is  the  woman's  fault ;  she  reaps  as  she 
has  sown. 

The  other  day,  ten  days  ago,  a  sudden 
impulse  made  me  take  up  a  little  tract  that 
hitherto  I  had  not  cared  to  read,  and  that  I 
trust  your  eyes  will  never  look  upon — the 
"  Kreutzer  Sonata."  I  went  through  it 
carefully,  and  laid  it  down  with  a  sigh  ;  for 
here  was  a  case,  it  seemed  to  me,  where  the 
heart  knew  not  its  own  bitterness,  divined 
not  why  it  was  so  sad.  And  yet  the  man 
who  could  write  "  My  Religion  "  deserved 
to  know  what  love  is,  and  to  have  been  in 
turn  beloved.  But,  in  fact,  nothing  was 
more  clear  to  me  than  that  Tolstoi  has 
never  been  in  love.  Having  got  this  clew 


-      HIS  LETTERS  71 

by  intuition,  I  went  back  and  tested  it  in 
a  hundred  sorry  and  shabby  conjunctures 
where,  as  he  averred,  mutual  disgust  and 
loathing  were  the  sad  sequel  of  desire.  There 
was  not  one  of  these  in  which  one  could  not 
see  that  the  man  would  have  acted  other- 
wise had  it  been  love  he  felt  instead  of  its 
poor  counterfeit  ;  had  he  thought  always 
of  her  and  of  himself  never,  or  only  for 
short  and  repented  intervals.  Ah,  when  a 
man  truly  loves  a  woman,  he  cannot  bear 
the  thought  that  she  should  lose  through 
him,  even  for  a  second,  her  self-esteem. 
What  were  all  delights,  the  most  madden- 
ing, compared  with  the  undying  agony 
of  such  a  thought  ?  Above  all,  I  noticed 
in  Tolstoi's  sketch  a  strange  blindness  to 
the  fact  that  it  is  when  a  woman  has 
been  kindest  that  a  man  needs  not  only 
the  devotion,  but  the  wisdom  and  tact  of 
an  archangel,  if  she  is  not  to  shrink  from 
him  ...  a  little.  But  I  must  pause  and 
cool  my  style — or  I  shall  shortly  grow  half 
guilty  in  my  thoughts  again.  But  how 
would  it  be  with  a  woman,  with  a  supreme 
woman,  a  woman  of  genius  like  yourself,  for 


72  HIS  LETTERS 

instance  ?  Ah,  here  I  must  speak  with  the 
utmost  doubt  and  diffidence.  Could  her 
love  outlive  fruition  ?  Admitting  that  it  was 
real  love,  the  largest,  the  most  complex,  at 
once  the  most  ardent  and  divinest,  I  cannot 
speak  with  certainty,  but,  alas,  I  fear  that 
hers — that  yours — would  not.  For  it  is 
plain  that  in  such  a  case  the  reverse  of  what 
we  were  just  saying  would  be  true.  Her 
constancy  of  will  and  of  desire  would  depend 
upon  the  man — and  what  man  living,  or  that 
ever  lived,  has  been  endowed  with  an  organi- 
zation so  exquisite  that  it  could  satisfy  the 
delicacy,  even  if  it  could  the  fervor  of  her 
own  ?  There  is  no  such  man — there  never 
was — and  it  is  a  wise  instinct  that  prompts 
certain  women  to  shrink  with  horror  from 
the  hour  of  possession  ;  for,  for  them  it  will 
strike  almost  certainly  the  knell  of  passion 
— which  dead,  affection  will  soon  languish — 
and  what  then  would  be  left  for  the  men 
who  loved  them  but  the  grave  ? 

Oh,  I  thank  you  for  the  portrait.  I  have 
pored  over  it  long.  I  shall  not  tell  you  what 
I  see  in  it,  but  the  old  man  was  almost  as 
wise  as  I.  I  see  where  it  is  inadequate,  but 


HIS  LETTERS  73 

it  is  divinely  lovely ;  and  yet  I  have  re- 
strained myself  from  pressing  it  wildly  to 
my  lips.  I  have  sworn  not  to  kiss  it,  and 
therefore  I  am  holding  the  picture  with 
a  firm  hand,  at  a  safe  distance.  Fear  not, 
beloved,  and  think  not  that  I  say  this  jest- 
ingly. I  will  be  strong,  and  you  shall  lean 
on  me.  But  will  you  not  say  one  sweet  word 
to  encourage  and  thank  me  ? 

Letter  Twenty-fourth. 

A  boy  !  what  poignant  flattery  !  Would 
to  God  I  were,  if  I  could  get  the  boy's 
heart  back  again,  his  trust  and  faith  !  But 
you  will  not  help  me  call  it  back  again. 
You  will  not  give  the  little  thing  with  which 
a  boy's  heart  is  satisfied  ;  little  to  you,  but 
not  to  me  to  whom,  of  late,  everything  is 
symbol. 

Loyal  to  you,  loyal  to  you  ?  That  you 
could  say  that  implies  a  doubt.  These 
doubts  destroy  me. 

Ah,  I  see  the  certainty  that  you  are  about 
to  escape  my  importunate  letters — Good 
God  !  I  suppose  you  class  them  with  others 
that  you  receive  daily — is  already  having 


74  HIS  LETTERS 

upon  me  the  dividing  effect  of  distance. 
You  will  let  me  down  gently.  You  will 
refrigerate  by  merciful  degrees  ;  and  at  last, 
when  you  are  fifteen  hundred  miles  away, 
you  will  tell  me  that  on  the  whole  and  con- 
sidering all  things,  it  might  be  well  to  let 
this  correspondence  cease. 

I  can  bear  the  stroke  ;  I  have  expected  it. 

It  doesn't  surprise  me  in  the  least  that 
you  should  say,  "  When  we  meet  I  shall  be 
of  ice;  expect  nothing,  hope  nothing.  You 
will  hate  me."  I  have  never  supposed  that 
you  were  really  anything  but  ice  ;  that  your 
feelings  were  anywhere  except  in  your  head. 
I  never,  in  my  sober  moments,  expected  any- 
thing, hoped  anything.  And  if  you  should 
ask  me  in  a  perfunctory  way  to  come  and 
see  you,  I  should  know  that  you  did  not 
mean  it,  and  that  at  heart  you  would  rather 
that  I  stayed  away. 

Let  me  tell  you  that  I  said  certain  things 
to  you,  not  with  the  least  wish  to  please 
you,  but  because  they  pleased  me,  because 
they  eased  my  heart,  and  because  they  were 
true.  Let  me  tell  you  it  is  a  pleasure  to 
dwell  for  an  hour  in  a  fool's  paradise.  You 


ffIS  LETTERS  75 

are  one  of  those  wise  prophets  that  know 
how  to  provide  for  the  fulfillment  of  their 
own  prophecies.  In  one  thing,  however, 
unluckily  for  me,  you  are  mistaken.  I  shall 
never  hate  you.  I  am  too  deeply  grateful 
to  you  for  that.  You  cannot,  at  your  light 
will,  rob  me  of  the  feelings  which  are  an 
eternal  wellspring  of  stimulus  and  joy. 

I  am  glad  you  read  my  second  letter,  that 
went  by  post,  with  some  sympathy.  I 
thought  it  would  get  that  if  it  reached  you. 
To-day,  a  week  hence,  it  might  be  differ- 
ent. 

I  shall  go  on  writing  to  you  until  I  get 
what  may  be  called  the  second  degree  of 
congelation.  Even  then,  I  will  try  to  thaw 
out  a  last  few  words.  Meanwhile  I  will  rack 
my  brains  for  topics  of  an  airy,  entertaining, 
and  undisturbing  nature.  Let  me  catch  the 
careless,  mocking,  Jin  de  sikcle  tone  which 
matches  so  perfectly  the  disillusions  and  the 
shams  of  life.  How  tired  you  must  be  of 
tragedy.  It  is  quite  out  of  date — bad  form. 
Bon  voyage,  madame,  bon  voyage!  I  trust 
the  girlish  ardor  with  which  you  shall  wel- 
come new  sensations  will  be  as  fresh  and 


7<5  HIS  LETTERS 

artless  as  the  boyish   folly   that   craved  a 
word  from  you. 

Letter  Twenty -fifth. 

THURSDAY,  MIDNIGHT. 

It  will  perhaps  remove  what  seems  to  ex- 
ercise a  slight  strain  upon  your  mind  if  I 
tell  you  what  is  the  truth,  that  I  have  just 
burned  every  one  of  your  letters  that  I  had 
left,  talisman  and  all.  There  is,  now,  abso- 
lutely nothing  that  you  ever  touched  or  saw, 
except  the  books  and  a  little  piece  of  ribbon 
which  I  return  to  you.  This  will  enable 
you  to  say  with  even  more  complete  cer- 
tainty than  usual,  "  I  do  not  know  the 
man." 

Au  plaisir  de  vous  revoir  dans  1'autre 
monde,  madame ! 

Letter  Twenty-sixth. 

I  don't  expect  you  to  answer  this  letter. 
I  have  lost  all  hope  of  ever  seeing  your 
handwriting  again.  If  you  consent  even 
to  look  at  this  it  will  be  infinitely  more 
than  I  deserve.  I  do  not  ask  you  to  forgive 
me,  for  I  know  that  I  have  offended  this 


HIS  LETTERS  77 

time  past  forgiveness.  I  have  tried  all  day 
to  frame  a  few  words,  but  I  could  not,  and 
if  now,  at  last,  I  put  forth  a  feeble  cry,  it  is 
not  to  plead  the  faintest  justification  for  my 
wicked  act,  but  only,  only  to  mitigate  a 
little  the  nature  of  the  feeling  with  which 
you  now  regard  me.  For  it  is  not  quite 
scorn  with  which  you  ought  to  look  on  me, 
no,  not  quite  that.  It  is  rather  the  horror 
with  which  we  look  on  the  insane. 

It  is  only  within  the  last  few  hours  that  I 
have  myself  been  able  to  understand  what 
happened.  Up  to  eight  o'clock  last  night  I 
had  shut  my  eyes  and  refused  to  consider 
settled  the  fact  that  you  were  really  going 
away.  I  had  not  grasped  it  ^t  all.  I  had 
all  day  been  very  much  excited,  passing 
swiftly  from  one  mood  to  another,  thrilled 
with  rapture  one  hour,  and  melted  to  sobs 
the  next.  But  what  your  going  away  would 
really  signify  to  me  had  not  been  disclosed 
to  me  at  all.  It  was  not  until  I  sat  alone  in 
my  bedroom — your  last  letter — yes,  the  last 
— had  just  reached  me,  that  a  sense  of  the 
appalling  loneliness  which  would  be  mine 
upon  the  morrow,  and  the  next  day,  and  for 


78  HIS  LETTERS 

weeks  to  come,  flashed  upon  me.  I  per- 
ceived suddenly  that  I  had  been  literally 
kept  alive  by  your  letters  for  a  fortnight 
past,  and  by  the  power  I  seemed  to  have  of 
calling  you  up  to  my  mind,  as  long  as  you 
were  in  the  same  atmosphere. 

But  that  was  because  I  knew  in  which 
direction  to  think,  and  where  you  must  be, 
at  least,  at  certain  hours.  But  then,  all  at 
once,  I  saw  what  would  befall  me :  that  a 
few  hours  later  I  would  never  know  where 
you  were,  that  I  could  not  even  tell  in 
which  State  you  would  be,  that  my  imagi- 
nation would  never  be  able  to  find  you,  but 
that  it  would  grope  and  flounder  like  a  lost 
soul  in  the  abyss.  Ah,  I  never  can  make  a 
sane  person  understand  what  this  convic- 
tion meant  to  me.  I  have  found,  since  I 
began  to  know  you,  that  I  could  live  in  the 
brain,  as  other  people  live  in  the  air;  and 
it  had  been  so  infinitely  sweeter  than  any 
life  I  had  ever  known  that  the  thought  of 
losing  it  maddened  me.  I  could  not  think 
or  reason  at  all.  I  could  only  keep  saying 
to  myself,  "She  is  gone,  gone,  and  I  can 
never  find  her ! "  And  then  the  awful 


If  IS  LETTERS  79 

ft 

blankness  of  my  existence  as  it  had  been 
until  lately,  and  as  it  now  would  be  again, 
fell  on  me  with  such  a  shudder  as  one  in  a 
trance  might  feel  who  hears  them  nailing 
the  coffin  over  his  head.  Then  I  seized 
your  two  last  letters,  as  if  they  were  wires 
that  led  to  you,  and  might  bring  rescue. 
I  tried  to  read  them,  but  I  could  not  as 
a  sane  man  would ;  not  as  even  I  can 
read  them  now,  to-night  when  it  is  too 
late.  You  told  me  to  "  be  reasonable," 
and  alas !  at  that  moment  I  had  no  reason. 
It  seemed  to  me  that  at  the  moment  of 
departure,  and  when  I  most  desperately 
needed  every  thread  of  hope  and  faith, 
it  seemed  to  me  that  you  had  taken  every- 
thing from  me,  that  you  had  chosen  my 
hour  of  need,  not  to  accent  but  to  attenu- 
ate ;  and  then  as  I  thought  that,  leaping 
quickly  from  bad  to  worse,  I  said,  "Oh, 
Heavens!  she  is  regretting.  She  wishes 
to  recall  her  words.  She  would  rather  I 
did  not  have  them.  She  is  thinking  of 
herself  all  the  time,  and  not  at  all  of  m^ 
that  am  to  be  left  here  in  this  frightful  soli- 
tude." And  then,  as  a  man  that  has  a  knife 


8o  HIS  LETTERS 

stuck  in  his  heart  turns  it  round  in  the  frenzy 
of  his  pain,  I  tore  out  of  my  breast-pocket 
all  the  latest  letters  that  I  had  been  treasur- 
ing from  a  sort  of  blind  instinct  that  I  should 
need  them,  and  I  hurled  them  into  the 
flames — all — all,  even  the  card  which  bore 
the  dates  and  places. 

And  I  found,  a  minute  afterward,  when  I 
tried  to  pull  some  charred  remnants  out  of 
the  fire,  that  I  could  only  recall  the  ad- 
dresses in  N.  and  O.  and  that  the  rest  had 
gone  from  me. 

For  a  while,  as  I  sat,  staring  at  the 
embers,  I  seemed  to  have  no  distinct  con- 
sciousness of  any  .thought  or  feeling;  and 
the  first  thing  that  took  shape  in  my  mind 
was  a  wicked  desire  that  I  might  not  suffer 
like  that  all  alone.  "  My  God  ! "  I  said, 
"shall  not  she  suffer  too  ?  "  As  if  hurting 
you  could  make  me  any  less  wretched ! 
Oh,  I  tell  you  that  such  wickedness  as  that 
deserves  more  pity  than  detestation  ;  for 
no  sane  man  could  feel  it  toward  anyone — 
and  how,  in  Heaven's  name,  to  you,  who 
had  been,  that  very  day,  an  angel  of  kind- 
ness and  sympathy,  who  had  wept  because 


fffS  LETTERS  8 1 

I  had  wept?  Why  could  I  not  think  of 
that,  last  night  ?  Because  I  was  mad  with 
grief  and  the  anticipation  of  what  I  was  to 
suffer,  and  self-pity  for  the  destruction  of 
those  letters,  and  a  wild  wish  to  pull  down 
the  firmament  in  a  general  ruin.  And  then 
I  wrote  those  vile  masterpieces  of  iniquity  ! 
the  two  notes  that  you  got  this  morning. 
I  had  .a  maniac's  ingenuity  in  coining 
phrases  that  would  wound.  In  my  mind  I 
sullied  you  by  odious  doubts  and  suspicions 
that  you  had  no  doubt  been  playing  with 
me,  amused  yourself  studying  a  new  and 
morbid  type,  but  that  having  exhausted  it, 
you  would  now,  when  you  were  a  long  way 
off,  and  could  not  be  teased  by  hourly  en- 
treaties, let  me  know  that  on  the  whole  you 
did  not  care  to  have  so  much  of  your  time 
taken  up  with  correspondence,  and  that  I 
had  better  employ  my  talents  in  a  more 
useful  way.  Oh,  yes ;  all  night  I  kept  say- 
ing to  myself  that  that  must  be  the  epitome 
of  your  thought,  for  otherwise  you  would 
not  go  away.  Ah,  you  must  see  that  I  was 
mad. 

I  was  so  afraid  that  I  should  oversleep 


82  HIS  LETTERS 

the  hour  of  departure  ;  and  what,  as  the 
night  wore  on,  seemed  of  all  things  the 
most  intolerable  was  that  you  should  go  with- 
out my  telling  you  that  I  didn't  care — didn't 
care — and  make  you,  if  I  could,  believe  me. 
And  so,  in  a  fever  of  haste,  I  went  out  soon 
after  dawn,  long  before  the  shops  were 
open.  I  wandered  about  the  streets,  came 
home  again,  wondered  if  there  was  any 
other  fiendish  thing  that  I  could  do,  remem- 
bered my  little  ribbon,  plucked  that  off, 
determined  to  make  you  understand  that  I 
wouldn't  keep  anything  of  yours  ;  went  out 
again  and  found  a  messenger,  and  then, 
having  completed  my  despicable  work, 
came  home  and  threw  myself  all  dressed 
upon  my  bed.  I  was  tired,  exhausted,  I 
suppose.  At  any  rate  I  was  in  a  troubled 
sleep  when  a  servant  woke  me  up  to  give 
me  those — those  six  lines  that  you  had 
traced  upon  a  card.  The  torture  that  I 
have  gone  through  since  I  got  those  words 
of  yours  were  not  like  the  torments  of  the 
night.  They  were  not  those  of  a  fiend,  but 
of  a  wrecked  and  hope-forsaken  human 
being.  I  knew  that  there  could  be  no  for- 


HIS  LETTERS  83 

giveness  for  me  now ;  that  even  if  you 
wished  you  could  not  think  as  kindly  as 
perhaps  you  did.  But  I  thought  that  to- 
night, if  I  was  able  to  write  at  all,  I  would 
try  to  picture  something  of  what  I  have 
gone  through,  so  that,  instead  of  despising 
me,  you  might  be  moved  to  feel  a  little 
compassion.  I  do  not  ask  you  to  say  that 
you  can  look  upon  me  more  in  sorrow  than 
in  anger.  I  do  not  ask  you  ever  to  speak 
to  me  again.  You  have  only  by  silence  to 
let  me  know,  as  gently  as  you  can,  that  you 
do  not  care  to  receive  any  more  letters 
from  me  ;  indeed,  I  could  not  write  again  if 
you  would  let  me,  for  I  have  lost  the  next 
addresses,  they  are  destroyed. 

In  a  letter  which  I  wrote  you  Wednesday 
afternoon  I  said,  "  Forget  me  not !  "  The 
only  word  that  I  dare  say  to  you  to-night  is 
forget.  Forget,  forget  !  for  then,  perhaps, 
months  hence — you  have  been  to  me  so  in- 
finitely forbearing — you  might — you  might 
forgive.  Would  it  at  least  raise  me  from 
the  dust  if  I  swear  to  you  that  sooner 
than  again  give  way  to  the  infernal  im- 
pulse to  make  you  share  my  suffering,  I 


84  HIS  LETTERS 

would  find  a  quick  and  easy  way  to  rid  you 
of  a  curse  ?  Would  it  ?  But  no,  answer 
not  ;  never  address  me  again. 

Letter  Twenty-seventh. 

FRIDAY. 

I  went  out  last  night,  in  the  blizzard,  at 
midnight,  to  post  that  outcry  of  despair  ; 
and  this  morning — oh,  this  morning  !  I  find 
my  wild  prayer  answered,  answered  before 
you  heard  it.  Oh,  no  ;  you  heard  it  in  your 
heart.  Ah,  that  was  Christlike  !  Why,  if 
there  were  no  religion,  such  women  as  you 
would  make  men  like  to  invent  one. 
Whence,  whence  sprang  in  your  white 
bosom  that  exhaustless  fund  of  gentleness 
and  forgiveness  ?  Oh,  worshiped  one,  my 
savior,  why  did  not  you  punish  me,  destroy 
me  ?  I  wanted,  I  yearned  to  be  destroyed 
by  you,  in  a  blast  of  justice.  I  wanted  you 
to  trample  on  me,  to  set  your  small  heel  on 
my  worthless  neck,  and  grind  me  into  dust 
in  the  fury  of  an  offended  goddess  ;  and 
you  do  not,  you  will  not.  Ah,  you  came 
straight  from  heaven ;  the  earth  is  no  place 
for  you  ! 


HIS  LETTERS  85 

Do  I  know  what  is  the  meaning  of  that 
pain  at  the  heart  ?  Before  I  knew  you  I 
longed  for  sudden  death.  I  cared  not  how 
soon  it  came.  But  you,  ah,  that  is  differ- 
ent !  You  are  a  blessing  to  the  earth.  No 
one  with  a  soul  can  look  at  you  and  not  be 
better  for  the  sight.  Oh,  you  should  never 
have  a  pang  !  When  I  think  that  you  may 
be  suffering  now,  and  that  I  can  do  nothing, 
I  that  would  die  for  you — O  God  !  let  me 
wait  a  little,  I  can  write  no  more. 

Later. — See,  dear,  I  am  kneeling  to  you 
at  this  instant;  I  am  clasping  your  knees; 
I  am  looking  up  at  you  and  praying  you 
that  the  very  moment  you  receive  this  letter 
you  will  telegraph  me  that  you  are  perfectly 
well.  Don't  leave  me  in  this  agony  of  anx- 
iety a  second  longer  than  you  can  help. 
You  will  not,  will  you  ?  Oh,  let  me  thank 
heaven  for  these  electric  wires  ! 

Those  vile  letters  that  I  wrote  in  my  de- 
spair and  anger,  there  is  nothing  you  could 
say  of  them  that  I  would  not  underscore 
with  a  ferocious,  scathing  emphasis.  They 
were  unmanly,  despicable,  dastardly,  be- 
cause they  aimed  to  make  you  suffer,  from 


86  HIS  LETTERS 

no  reason,  from  no  better  reason — think  of 
it ! — than  because  I  was  miserable  myself. 
Why,  that  is  the  very  distinctive  mark  of 
fiends,  who,  because  they  are  in  hell,  try 
to  vent  their  spite  and  envy  on  harmless 
human  beings  ! 

Something  you  let  drop  of  youth.  What 
meaning  has  the  word  to  one  that  thinks  of 
you  ?  I  happen  to  know  that  you  are  more 
than  a  dozen  years  younger  than  I,  and  I 
would  to  God  the  interval  were  less.  And 
let  me  tell  you,  dearest,  that  if  you  were 
much  younger  than  you  are,  I  could  not  love 
you,  not  quite  so  much  as  I  do  now.  You 
would  know  less ;  your  range  of  vision 
would  be  narrower,  your  feelings  less  in- 
tense and  sensitive.  They  could  not  an- 
imate, inflame,  electrify  every  fiber  of  your 
lovely  body  as  they  do  now.  It  is  only  a 
full-grown  woman,  in  the  flower  of  her  mind, 
her  soul,  and  her  vitality,  that  can  both  feel 
passion  and  inspire  it.  It  is  only  for  the 
ignorant  that  Elaine  has  any  charm.  To 
me  give  Guinevere.  Ah  !  if  I  might  but  sit 
by  your  side,  and  recall  the  sad  idyl  to  your 
sweet  listening  ear. 


HIS  LETTERS  87 

Somewhere  in  this  letter  I  have  used 
the  word  anger.  Anger,  anger  with  you  ? 
Now  listen  to  me,  my  beloved,  I  invoke  no 
god;  but  here  in  the  forum  of  my  conscience, 
which  is  god  enough  for  me,  I  swear  to  you 
that  if  I  ever  again  say  to  you,  deliberately 
and  intentionally,  one  word  that  hurts  you, 
you  shall  not  need  to  smite  me  with  your 
forgiveness.  I  will  punish  myself.  Believe 
it,  and  say  to  me  that  you  believe  it.  Say 
it,  dear,  and  prove  it  by  writing  to  megayly 
and  teasingly  ;  just  to  see  how  meek  and 
lowly  I  will  always,  while  life  lasts,  be  to 
you. 

Let  me  just  touch  on  one  thing  that  you 
said  in  one  of  your  latest  letters.  You  see, 
divinest,  that  I  remember  every  word, 
though  the  paper  that  had  left  your  hand 
exists  no  longer.  You  said  that  when  I  saw 
you  I  must  expect  nothing/  for  I  should  find 
you  de  glace.  As  I  read  that  I  said,  "  Is  it 
possible  that  this  gracious  lady  imagines 
that  when  I  see  her  I  could  pain  her  by 
showing  her  a  consciousness  of  her  gra- 
ciousness  ?  Does  she  think  that  by  a  look, 
a  tone,  a  syllable,  an  accent,  I  would  betray 


88  HIS  LETTERS 

a  recollection  of  some  sweet  word  she 
might  have  whispered  to  me  in  a  distant 
dream  ?  Does  she  not  know  that  if  a  man 
is  worthy  to  kiss  the  hem  of  her  gown,  it  is 
when  a  woman  has  been  kind  that  he  is 
humblest  ;  that  it  is  to  degrade  me  infinitely 
to  apprehend  the  contrary  ?  "  Ah,  no  !  be- 
lieve me,  when  the  day  comes  that  I  shall 
look  upon  your  face,  you  shall  find  me  suf- 
ficiently conventional.  And  I  am  sure  that 
you  and  I  have  between  us  brains  enough 
to  talk  in  a  decorous,  lively,  and  fruitful 
way  even  about  the  weather. 

Oh,  what  have  you  done  with  my  little 
silken  string,  the  only  thing  I  had  left  that 
I  thought  you  had  touched,  my  precious 
ribbonlet  ?  What  have  you  done  with  it  ? 
Have  you  thrown  it  out  of  the  window,  or 
flung  it  on  the  floor,  to  be  trodden  on  and 
swept  away?  If  you  have,  it  has  served  me 
right,  but  if  by  chance  you  have  kept  it,  tell 
me,  will  you  not  ?  and  I  will  tell  you  what 
to  do  with  it,  not  now,  but  on  some  distant 
day,  when  I  am  not  so  sorrowful,  and  when 
I  know  that  you  are  well. 

Tell  me  one  thing  more.     What  did  you 


HIS  LETTERS  89 

mean  by  bidding  me  be  entirely  loyal  ?  Do 
I  understand  your  thought  ?  I  need  no 
such  command.  It  is  utterly  impossible  for 
me  to  think  of  another  woman  ;  all  others 
simply  do  not  exist.  It  is  not  possible  for 
a  man  to  be  unfaithful  when  he  truly  loves. 
He  is  like  ice,  dead  to  every  other  member 
of  her  sex.  This  is  true,  and  some  day  I 
will  tell  you  more  of  this  .  .  .  Now,  dear- 
est, a  last  word.  Let  "no  fear  of  being 
hurt  by  me  ever  again  trouble  your  soul. 
The  remorse  and  agony  that  I  have  known 
in  these  last  two  days  have  done  the  work 
of  a  lifetime.  So,  do  what  you  will  to  me, 
never  shall  you  hear  a  word  or  see  a  look  of 
reproach.  Good-night,  good-night,  good-by! 

Letter   Twenty-eighth. 

Ah,  you  did  pity ;  you  could  find  it  in 
your  heart  to  forgive.  Your  telegram — I 
see — I  see  the  heavenly  compassion  that 
beamed  from  your  eyes,  as  you  whispered 
those  words  of  balm  and  joy  ineffable,  to  a 
self-stricken  one  who  desired,  who  yearned 
to  die.  "  Everything  is  forgiven  and  under- 
stood." Forgiven  ?  God  bless  her  !  Yet, 


9°  HIS  LETTERS 

alas !  so  sweet  a  woman  might  out  of  sheer 
gentleness  forgive  brutality  she  could  not 
comprehend.  But  "understood"-— oh,  did 
your  instinct  tell  you  what  that  word  would 
mean  to  me  ?  You  could  not  "  understand  " 
unless  you  had  begun  to  care  for  me  just  a 
little.  When  you  said  "understood"  it  was 
as  if  you  had  shyly,  shyly  touched  my 
parched  lips  with  your  softj  fingers.  Ah, 
yes ;  you  can  see,  looking  back,  what  I  too 
am  able  to  discern,  that  your  going  away 
was  the  unmeant,  infallible  touchstone  of 
the  depth  and  nature  of  the  feeling  that  I 
have  for  you.  If  I  could  unshaken,  nay  un- 
ruffled, have  seen  you,  at  the  last  moment, 
go  away  for  weeks  and  thousands  of  miles, 
if  I  could  have  seen  that  without  a  heart- 
splitting  explosion  and  very  earthquake  of 
the  soul — I  should  have  utterly  miscon- 
strued the  fervor  and  the  quality  of  what  I 
took  to  be  affection.  It  would  have  proved 
that  I  had  taken  the  name  of  love  in  vain. 
Surely  you  will  never  again  ask  me  to  search 
my  heart,  and  weigh  and  measure  the  truth 
of  my  words  to  you.  I  gave,  without  mean- 
ing, a  terrible  proof  of  my  sincerity,  for  I 


HIS  LETTERS  91 

hurt  you — you,  whom  if  another  hurt  he 
need  look  for  no  mercy  at  my  hands ;  the 
tortures  of  the  lost  would  be  too  good  for 
him. 

Later. — I  emerged  from  my  cell  last  night, 
and  went  down  town  to  dine  with  a  lot  of 
men,  intending  to  come  home  by  ten,  for  I 
grudge  every  moment  that  I  cannot  give  to 
thoughts  of  you.  But  there  was  much  wild 
talk  of  literature,  of  art.  What  are  these 
things  to  life?  And  H.  insisted  on  unfold- 
ing to  L.,  to  D.,  and  the  others,  some  dream 
he  has  of  carrying  the  war  into  Philistia. 
So  I  did  not  come  home  till  midnight — in  a 
bad  humor — vexed  that  so  many  hours  were 
gone  which  I  could  have  employed  much 
better,  and  wondering,  wondering  what  you 
were  doing  at  that  moment.  "  You  fool ! " 
to  myself  I  said,  "  do  you  fancy  that  she 
thinks  of  you?  Thank  your  stars  that  she 
has  not  spurned  you,  that  she  did  not  tear 
the  heart  out  of  your  body,  in  the  fury  of 
her  wrath  and  scorn  ! "  And  so,  grateful 
yet  downcast,  like  a  man  reprieved  from 
punishment,  but  doubtful  whether  the  sun 
will  ever  again  shine  with  the  same  warmth 


93  HIS  LETTERS 

— I  came  up  to  my  bedroom.  There  on 
the  table  lay  a  telegram,  "Good-night  ! 
The  angels  guard  thee."  It  was  from  you 
the  whisper  came.  Did  you  not  feel  with 
that  marvelous  sixth  sense  what  happened 
to  me  then  ?  Did  you  not  see  me  cast  my- 
self upon  my  bed,  clasping  your  message  in 
my  hands,  and  thrusting  it  close  to  my 
heart  ?  Did  you  not  hear  me  speak  to  you  ? 
You  must  have  heard,  for  in  that  vision  it 
seemed  to  me  that  I  had  force  enough  to 
bound  across  the  gulf  that  parted  us.  I 
found  your  room — I  entered  it — you  were 
sleeping — one  of  your  hands  lay  like  a  lily 
on  the  tender  margins  of  your  breast.  The 
other  hung  trailing  over  the  white  edge  of 
the  couch.  Ah,  do  you  know  why  in  your 
slumber  you  drew  that  pendent  hand  away 
with  a  pettish,  fretful  motion  ?  Because 
you  felt  my  kiss  upon  its  finger-tips.  I  was 
kneeling  to  kiss  that  which  was  so  kind 
to  me. 

Good-by,  thou  that  hast  the  secret  of 
being  at  once  in  two  places,  no  matter  how 
wide  apart  they  be. 

This  word  I  post  now,  to  make  sure  of  its 


HIS  LETTERS  93 

arrival  before  you  leave.  To-morrow  I 
shall  write  again.  Oh  !  telegraph  me  that 
you  are  quite  well.  Don't  leave  me  in  sus- 
pense about  that  also. 

Letter    Twenty-ninth. 

I  received  your  telegram  of  nine  o'clock 
last  evening.  Bless  you  for  sending  it, 
though  it  was  with  a  poignant  mixture  of 
feelings  that  I  read  it.  Oh,  you  were  ill  all 
the  way,  and  you  are  ill  still ;  and  you  do 
not  revile  and  curse  me  for  having  offended ! 
My  God  !  what  shall  I  do  ?  You  will  not 
let  me  do  the  only  thing  that  might  a  little 
revive  my  self-respect — accept  with  humble- 
ness the  harshest,  most  galling  thing  that 
you  could  say  to  me.  Kiss,  ah,  yes,  I  crave 
to  kiss  the  foot  that  spurned  me.  You  will 
not  let  me  do  anything,  then,  but  loathe 
myself  and  worship  you  ?  Oh,  when  you 
do  these  things,  you  set  yourself  so  infinitely 
above  all  other  human  beings  I  dare  not 
look  up.  It  would  be  sacrilege  to  love  a 
saint.  I  was  all  wrong,  all  wrong  in  the 
tenor  of  my  dreaming  about  you.  I  see 
that  in  fashioning  you  nature  hesitated 


94  HIS  LETTERS 

long ;  that  her  hand  faltered,  doubting 
whether  she  would  make  you  a  Venus  or  a 
Madonna.  I  know  that  you  could  be  the 
one,  and  whether  you  could  be  the  other  I 
know  not  now,  and  I  will  never  dare  to 
guess.  But,  my  adored  one,  since  your 
heart  can  frame  no  conception  of  vengeance, 
except  to  bless  them  that  smite  you,  let 
there  be  no  limit  to  your  mercy.  Do  this 
too  for  me,  do  this.  Tell  me  that  you  will 
burn,  that  you  have  burnt  those  two  wicked 
letters  that  I  sent  to  you  that  Thursday 
morning.  If  you  keep  them  you  will  look 
at  them  again,  and  I  shall  know  it,  I  shall 
know  it  by  the  sinking  of  my  heart.  For 
God's  sake,  dearest,  do  this  for  me.  Alas  ! 
there  is  nothing,  nothing,  nothing  I  can  do 
for  you  ;  nothing  to  prove  the  agony  of  my 
repentance. 

Later. — Do  you  remember  in  one  of 
your  letters — oh,  I  have  forgotten  none  of 
them  !  though  they  are  no  longer  here  for 
me  to  kiss — do  you  remember  bidding  me 
pause  and  weigh  the  "  value,  strength,  and 
truth  "  of  the  words  I  said  to  you  ?  Dear, 
I  have  weighed  them,  and  they  have  no 


HIS  LETTERS  95 

strength  and  no  value.  If  I  had  the  high 
virtues  of  Plato,  and  the  quivering  fingers 
of  de  Musset,  I  could  not  distinguish  and 
unravel  the  myriad  fairy  threads  of  emo- 
tion, sympathy,  and  admiration  that  make 
up  the  cable  of  my  love  for  you.  My 
words  hold  nothing  but  the  truth  ;  oh,  they 
are  true !  How  could  they  be  aught  else  ? 
They  come  not  from  the  brain,  but  from  the 
heart.  You  know  that  heart ;  you  created 
it.  You  took  a  blank  page  and  stamped  it 
all  over  with  your  name.  Why,  I  could  not 
lie  to  you.  I  tried  to  in  those  two  vile 
letters  when  I  sought  to  prove  that  I  did 
not  care,  I  did  not  care.  But  I  could 
deceive  no  one.  The  dullest  eye  in  read- 
ing them  would  say,  "  The  man  is  wicked, 
mad,  but  yet — he  loves  her."  You  say 
you,  "  love  the  sun,  the  light,  the  air,  all 
those  lovely  sky  influences  that  make  one 
healthier  and  higher."  Ah,  you  shall  never 
again  have  aught  else  from  me. 

I  would  that  by  my  death  I  could  make 
thee  immortal.  You  needed  not  to  tell  me 
that  never  in  your  life  have  you  had  an 
envious  or  malicious  thought.  How  could 


96  nis  LETTERS 

you  have  ?  Whom  should  you  envy  ?  It 
is  they  who  must  look  up  who  envy  ;  not 
she  who,  wherever  her  soft  eyes  turn,  must 
needs  look  down.  And  where  envy  is  not, 
how  could  malice  find  place  ?  It  could  not 
breathe  in  such  an  air. 

You  say  I  do  not  know  you.  Alas,  I 
know  you  but  too  well !  It  is  the  perfection 
of  my  knowledge  that  racks  me  with  those 
dreadful  pangs  of  self-abasement  and  con- 
tempt. How  could  I  dare  to  try  to  wound 
you  ?  Oh,  I  am  a  worm  that  strove  to 
sting  a  god. 

Letter  Thirtieth. 

SATURDAY. 

There  are  many  things,  dearest,  that  one 
realizes  for  the  first  time  in  his  life  when 
one  is  utterly  possessed  (in  the  Scriptural 
sense)  by  a  great  passion.  One  is  the  hor- 
ribly congealing  and  desiccating  effect  pro- 
duced by  mere  distance  upon  the  written 
word.  Now,  if  I  were  discoursing  upon 
public  affairs,  if  I  were  a  diplomat  sent 
to  lie  abroad  for  the  good  of  my  country, 
I  should  welcome  the  chill  and  aridity 


HIS  LETTERS  97 

which  would  choke  and  smother  the  last 
spark  of  impulsive  human  feeling.  But 
fancy  making  warm  love,  hot  love,  at 
the  distance  of  a  thousand  leagues!  It  is 
a  contradiction  in  terms  ;  it  is  unthinkable. 
Poor  Love,  he  is  but  a  child,  you  know, 
and  he  takes  cold  and  turns  pale  from  too 
long  exposure  to  the  air.  But  Amor  rep- 
resents only  the  earthly  element  in  the  fath- 
omless complexity  of  feelings  that  make 
a  passion  truly  great.  It  is  only  he  that 
absence  has  the  least  power  upon ;  and  as  it 
is  he  whose  footsteps  are  tracked  by  the 
ghastly  specters  of  doubt,  jealousy,  and  self- 
ishness, perhaps  the  letter  from  which  this 
mischief-maker  is  barred  out  will  be  all  the 
more  healthy  and  acceptable. 

But,  really,  it  is  curious,  the  effect  of  great 
distance  on  the  pen.  When  she — oh,  what 
a  lovely  word  that  is  ! — when  she,  the  one 
woman,  is  in  the  same  town,  when  the  very 
air  you  are  inhaling  may  carry  a  trace  of 
her  sweet  breath,  when  you  know  that  in  a 
trice  a  messenger  can  put  a  missive  in  her 
hand,  why  then  you  forget  that  writing  is  at 
best  an  artificial  and  roundabout  mode  of 


98  HIS  LETTERS 

expression  ;  and  for  the  moment  you  can 
give  it  something  of  the  gush,  the  fervor, 
and  the  sincerity  of  speech.  But  speech 
itself,  ah,  that  is  the  noblest  organ  of  the 
soul.  How  its  tones  haunt  you,  and  what 
a  thing  it  is  to  watch  the  birth  of  thought 
struggling  into  life  and  utterance  upon  the 
trembling  lips!  Heavens!  What  would 
your  voice  sound  like  if  you  spoke  to  one 
you  really  cared  for  ?  I  know,  I  feel  that  it 
is  music,  though  I  have  never  heard  it ! — 
think  of  it !  There — I  have  written  quite  a 
little  essay  on  the  psychology  of  absence, 
and  I  don't  believe  you  are  a  bit  grateful. 

Later. — I  thank  you,  thank  you  for  telling 
me  how  to  reach  you  in  M.  Oh,  if  you  had 
seen  the  wild  search  which  on  Thursday, 
after  I  got  those  six  reproachful  lines,  I 
made  for  the  card  with  the  addresses,  and 
the  ang-uish  with  which  I  realized  that  it 

o 

must  be  among  the  letters  of  which  I  made 
that  hideous  bonfire.  Heavens !  suppose 
I  had  forgotten  the  address.  For  nearly 
two  days,  until  I  got  last  night  the  tele- 
gram, I  shook  with  fear  lest  I  had  forgotten 
it — had  somehow  got  it  wrong.  Think  of 


HIS  LETTERS  99 

it ;  suppose  that  those  three  days  had 
stretched  into  three  weeks,  and  in  the  whole 
of  that  eternity  I  could  not  have  spoken  of 
my  contrition  or  prayed  you,  prayed  you  to 
forgive.  I  must  stop.  I  must  go  quickly 
and  post  these  poor  fond  words  of  mine,  if 
they  are  to  go  to-night  and  reach  you,  as  I 
would  have  them,  with  all  the  speed  attain- 
able by  man. 

Letter  Thirty-first. 

I  have  the  first  letter  written  from  M., 
that  noble  letter  in  which  you  not  once 
reproach  me.  Oh,  you  are  my  savior ! 
How  can  you  be  so  good  to  me?  And  you 
knew  what  I  wanted  you  to  do  with  my  bit 
of  ribbon.  You  did  not  keep  me  waiting  ; 
you  did  it 'at  once,  and  sent  it  back  to  me. 
I  have  kissed  it  a  hundred  times  in  the  last 
five  minutes.  It  had  lain  on  your  bosom, 
close  to  the  heart  that  I  had  hurt  in  my 
insanity,  and  which  yet,  which  yet  forgave. 
Ah,  the  runaway  slave  that  in  a  burst  of 
fury  broke  his  fetters  has  come  back  of  his 
own  will.  He  has  bowed  his  neck  to  a 
yoke  more  light,  more  sweet,  more  lovable 


100  ///5  LETTERS 

than  freedom.  His  collar  is  re-riveted,  and 
he  can  shake  it  off  no  more. 

I  will  be  more  careful  about  my  health, 
since  you  care  in  the  least  about  it;  but 
really,  dear,  I  need  no  physician  but  you. 
If  I  could  see  you  once  I  should  have  the 
health  of  Hercules.  Before  knowing  you 
I  know  what  was  the  matter  with  me ;  I 
was  literally  dying  of  sheer  emptiness  of 
heart.  It  was  killing  me  to  mark  that  the 
starlit  sky,  a  touching  poem,  the  odors  of 
flowers,  the  tones  of  music  no  longer  had  the 
power  to  throw  me  into  a  delicious  trance. 
It  seemed  to  me  that  the  best  part  of  me 
was  already  frozen,  dead  ;  but  oh,  my  love  ! 
it  has  come  back  to  me,  you  have  brought 
it  back.  I  can  feel  again  the  joy,  the 
beauty,  and  the  rapture  of  living.  I  want 
to  live  ;  I  could  not  die !  I  am  so  much 
better  than  I  was  a  month  ago.  It  is  as  if 
some  powerful  elixir  had  been  shot  into  my 
veins. 

But  think  what  a  dreadful  thing  it  is  to 
me,  whom  you  have  given  a  new  life  as  truly 
as  if  you  had  raised  me  from  the  dead  ;  think 
what  it  is  to  learn,  as  I  must  learn  from 


tfIS  LET7ERS  lot 

your  letters,  that  you  are  less  happy  for 
knowing  me.  I  do  not  invigorate  you,  it 
seems,  as  you  do  me.  I  do  not  lift  you  up 
as  you  lift  me,  Oh,  no;  O  God,  I  drag  you 
down  !  What  must  I  do,  what  shall  I  do  ? 
I  can't  help  loving  you,  but  I  will  obey  you. 
and  seem  calm.  I  must  quickly  master  that 
hard  lesson  before  I  see  you,  for  then  I 
must  be  calm  and  even  frosty,  lest  I  hurt 
the  delicate  and  shrinking  petals  of  that 
rose,  your  heart. 

I  would  say,  The  angels  guard  thee  !  but 
thou  needest  no  celestial  guardians.  What 
needest  thou  of  them  ?  Tis  they  should 
kneel  to  thee. 

Letter   Thirty-second. 

I  have  your  letter  from  M.,  and  the  post- 
script— the  postscript  which  has  made  a  god 
of  me.  But  let  me  wait,  let  me  wait  a  mo- 
ment, or  I  can  speak  of  nothing  else. 

I  telegraphed  you  yesterday  to  answer 
my  telegrams  and  not  my  letters,  because 
letters,  sent  from  such  a  distance,  are  mis- 
leading. Yes,  they  have  led  me  terribly 
astray.  Listen,  dear  ;  the  letter  which  you 


102  HIS  LETTERS 

posted  at  M.  did  not  reach  me  until  five 
or  six  days  afterward.  Then  my  answer 
to  it  needed  three  days  to  reach  you.  By 
that  time,  just  because  you  are  as  bewitch- 
ingly  changeful  as  an  April  sky,  you  might 
have  entirely  forgotten  the  thought,  the 
mood,  the  sideword  of  emotion  to  which  I 
gave  responsive,  but,  alas  !  belated  throbs. 
Oh,  instinct  told  me,  that  evening  before 
you  went  away,  that  there  would  be  some- 
thing awful  in  the  absence  and  the  distance. 
Our  cases,  dear,  were  not  at  all  the  same. 
I  have  no  anchor.  You  had,  if  you  cared 
for  it,  for  I  loved  you.  You  had  my  heart, 
and  you  knew  it.  Even  when  I  raved 
against  you  in  my  agony  I  touched  you,  in- 
stead of  angering,  for  your  clear  eyes  read 
the  truth.  No  passionette  can  make  men 
rave.  But  I — why  I — of  your  heart  had  no 
certainty  at  all.  Ah,  yes  ;  I  might  surprise 
your  senses,  pique  them  a  little,  make  them 
curious  to  know  more  thoroughly  a  new, 
wild,  morbid  type.  For  I  know  well  enough 
that  few  men  can  express  themselves  with 
more  frightful  vigor  and  infectious  realism 
than  I  can,  when  I  am  roused.  Well,  to 


HIS  LETTERS  103 

startle  and  command  your  senses  would  of 
itself  be  a  triumph  for  which  men  have 
gladly  died.  But  you  see  my  aim  was  so 
much  deeper,  more  comprehensive,  more 
aspiring  !  It  was  your  heart  I  wanted  ;  for 
I  divined,  my  own  heart  taught  me,  that  if 
I  but  conquered  that,  all  the  other  joys 
would  be  added  unto  me.  It  was  not 
Lucifer,  but  Michael,  the  greatest  of  the 
good  archangels,  who  took  me  up  into  a 
high  mountain  and  showed  me  that.  No 
mortal,  he  told  me,  who  attacks  a  goddess 
by  her  senses  only  can  long  detain  her  on 
the  earth.  She  has  wings,  and  she  will 
spread  them  ;  and  the  last  lot  of  her  lover 
will  be  more  infernal  than  the  first.  Her 
heart,  her  heart,  make  that  but  yours,  and 
she  will  be 'seized  with  Aurora's  hunger  to 
make  you  as  herself,  because  she  wished  to 
love  forever. 

Ah,  I  knew,  I  knew  ;  but  what  is  knowl- 
edge when  hope  is  weak  and  dim  ?  Then 
came  that  little  letter  with  its  wonderful 
commingling  of  sweet  and  bitter,  which  at 
one  instant  drowned  me  in  delirium  and  at 
the  next  shook  me  with  horrible  fore- 


104  HIS  LETTERS 

boding.  It  was  not  solely  or  mainly  your 
frank  avowal  that  you  knew  not  whether 
I  had  your  heart ;  for  it  is  just  thinkable 
that  a  woman — even  a  very  wise  one — 
might  have  given  her  heart  and  not  know 
it  at  once.  No,  it  was  not  that,  but  some- 
thing which  you  went  on  to  say,  that  to 
me  was  pregnant  and  portentous.  You 
said,  "  To-morrow  you  may  do  or  say  or 
think  something  that  will  rob  you  of  your 
power  over  me,  and  me  of  an  illusion." 
No  one  who  cared  in  the  least  could  have 
said  that.  No  one  who  loved  could.  You 
could  not  do  or  say  or  think  anything  that 
would  not  straightway  undergo  transfigura- 
tion in  my  heart ;  if  in  another  not  quite 
beautiful,  your  touch  would  beautify  it, 
glorify !  Ah,  a  man  who  feels  as  I  do 
understands  why  his  great  ancestor  deemed 
even  the  plucking  of  that  apple  well  done 
because  Eve  did  it.  Why,  nothing  she 
could  do  but  ever  to  his  fond  eyes  seemed 
wisest,  virtuousest,  discreetest,  best.  But 
with  you,  it  seemed,  it  was  not  so.  You 
would  see  with  cool  and  piercing  clearness  ; 
you  would  weigh  and  measure  the  thing 


HIS  LETTERS  105 

done.  You  would  not  see  the  one  who  did 
it,  and  every  act  of  his,  through  the  haze 
that  love  alone  can  generate.  You  could 
never  guess,  I  fear,  what  anguish  that  sen- 
tence cost  me,  as  I  thought  what  dread- 
ful self-denial  and  long  martyrdom  the  con- 
quest of  your  heart  imposed.  No  one  but 
you  has  ever  made  me  weep — ah,  no  !  I 
have  been  one  of  those  that  ever  with  a 
steadfast  temper  have  been  able  to  take  the 
sunshine  and  the  storm.  Yet  even  in  the 
middle  of  my  sorrow — hope  is,  thank  God, 
so  hard  to  kill — there  came  to  me  a  flicker- 
ing faint  gleam  of  hopefulness,  as  if — as  if 
an  infant's  finger  had  touched  my  breast. 
For  I  remember  with  what  infinite  sweet- 
ness and  forbearance  you  have  treated  me 
in  certain  crises.  Caprice  knows  no  such 
magnanimity.  Had  it  been  a  mere  caprice 
you  felt,  oh,  surely,  you  would  have  smitten 
me,  consumed  me  with  a  lightning-stroke  of 
wrath  and  scorn.  Ah,  then  ;  if  not  caprice, 
what  was  it  ?  What  was  it  made  you  utter 
those  arresting,  agitating,  paralyzing  words  ? 
Was  it,  could  it  be  a  lovely  modesty  that 
sought  thus  to  throw  up  a  last  barrier ;  that 


106  HIS  LETTERS 

withdrew  dismayed  and  fluttering,  deep 
into  its  inmost  keep  ?  For  a  great  lady 
need  not  be  ashamed  of  a  caprice — but  to 
admit  that  her  heart  has  surrendered — ah, 
that  is  quite  a  different  avowal.  My  queen, 
my  queen,  why  do  you  ravish  me  with  that 
avowal  in  the  postscript  of  that  letter  which 
I  have  just  opened  ?  Oh,  do  not  bless  me 
with  one  breath,  only  to  reclaim  the  bless- 
ing presently.  Don't  you  see  that  if  you 
love  me,  if  you  can  give  to  me  your  heart, 
everything  for  me  is  wholly  changed?  No 
more  misgiving  ;  it  will  be  dead,  and  fear 
extinct.  I  could  not,  even  for  your  sake, 
bar  myself  from  you.  I  could  not  breathe 
apart  from  you. 

But  even  as  I  write  this  I  am  still  torn 
with  apprehension.  Who  knows  what  may 
have  happened  since  you  traced  those 
lines?  For  here  is  Wednesday  noon,  and 
I  have  had  no  second  word.  Oh,  think  of 
my  suspense ! 


HIS  LETTERS  107 

Letter   Thirty-third. 

You  ought  to  prove  a  good  physician,  for 
you  are  wondrous  learned  in  the  lore  of  the 
heart.  One  might  suppose  that,  at  first 
sight,  the  worst  way  possible  to  calm  a  man 
already  sufficiently  excited — to  give  him 
something  that  had  been  pressed  against 
your  bosom.  Yet  it  did  calm  me,  and  you 
knew  it  would.  You  knew  that  a  man  in 
my  condition  must  have  something  to  touch 
that  had  touched  you.  Your  instinct  told 
you  by  what  strange  cheatings  the  senses 
may  be  soothed  and  lulled.  Or,  it  may  be 
that  you  had  noticed  how,  when  an  infant 
clamors  for  the  breast  he  cannot  have,  they 
slip  into  his  mouth  a  tiny  bit  of  moistened 
rubber,  and  behold,  he  tugs  away  at  it  in 
dubious  contentment,  and  whimpers  off  to 
sleep. 

I  have  only  had  one  letter  written  from 
N.  Don't  think  I  am  complaining — I 
only  mentioned  it,  so  that  you  may  know 
whether  I  received  everything  I  should.  I 
don't  want  you  to  write  very  often,  lest 


Io8  7/75  LETTERS 

writing  to  me  should  become  a  sort  of  ball 
and  chain. 

Much  later. — I  had  just  said  that,  and 
was  trying  to  convince  myself  that  I 
believed  it,  when  someone  brought  me  a 
very  little  envelope  that  bore  your  hand- 
writing. The  eagerness  with  which  I 
snatched  it  gave  the  lie  to  my  protesta- 
tions ;  but  Heavens  !  I  marveled  my  hand 
did  not  drop  off.  That  little  envelope  was 
charged  with  electricity  enough  to  kill  a 
dozen  men  ;  it  shook  every  nerve-cell  to  an 
agony  of  ecstasy,  set  every  drop  of  blood  in 
my  body  to  bounding,  swelling,  bursting,  in 
a  mad  desire  to  spill  itself. 

It  was  the  act  of  an  angel  to  dispel  my 
doubts  forever.  You  knew  that  it  could  be 
done  in  one  way  only,  and  you  took  it.  I 
believe,  believe,  and  nothing  can  cloud  my 
belief  again.  My  God  !  it  is  then  possible. 
It  is  true  that  you  care  for  me  a  little.  Oh, 
there  must  be  a  God  ;  I  have  regained  my 
faith  in  him.  For  it  is  not  thinkable,  not 
thinkable  a  child  of  earth  should  know  such 
rapture.  And,  dearest,  is  there  not  some- 
thing indescribably  ennobling  in  the  fact 


HIS  LETTERS  109 

that  you  and  I  have  been  drawn  together  in 
this  strangest  of  all  ways  ? 

I  pity,  don't  you,  those  dull,  common 
creatures  who  suppose  the  eyes  to  be  the 
only  transparent  windows -of  the  soul,  the 
soul's  sure  channels  to  the  heart  ?  Oh,  we 
have  found  a  passage  shorter,  straighter, 
more  unerring,  more  delicious ;  that 
through  which  Love  himself  leaped  when 
he  fell  on  Psyche  in  the  dark.  What  a 
miracle  it  is  that  you  can  evoke  devotion, 
worship,  passion,  merely  by  existing ;  and 
what  exquisite  flattery  to  me  it  is  that  you 
should  let  me,  with  no  other  instrument 
than  a  pen,  touch  in  return  your  proud, 
sweet  heart.  Why,  this  is  the  finest  and 
most  admirable  thing  in  all  the  long  history 
of  lovers.  I  take  back  those  gifts  I  made 
of  you  to  those  men,  more  happy  in  that 
posthumous  blessing  than  ever  they  were  in 
their  lives.  Not  one  of  them  shall  have 
thee ;  they  could  not  love  as  well  as  I. 
Good-night  !  That  little  letter  lies  like  a 
red-hot  coal  now  close  to  my  heart,  my 
darling. 


HO  HIS  LETTERS 

Letter  Thirty -fourth. 

I  did  intend  to  write  to  you  about 
your  mind  to-night,  because  I  was  deter- 
mined to  invigorate ;  but  the  postman  has 
been  here,  and  I  have  changed  my  mind. 

I  follow  still  the  changes  of  the  moon. 
She  draws  the  tides  in  woman's  mystic  na- 
ture, and  you  draw  me.  I  shall  begin  with 
the  wrong  end,  the  less  lovely  end  of  your 
longer  letter.  As  for  the  little  note,  the 
only,  only  letter  worthy  of  the  name  that 
ever  in  my  life  set  my  eyes  to  swimming, 
that  I  must  keep  to  the  last ;  should  I  even 
think  of  it  now,  I  should  have  to  throw 
down  this  pen. 

I  wonder  that  you  don't  more  often  mis- 
understand my  letters,  that  there  are  not 
more  words  left  out  or  wrong  ones  slipped 
in,  for  I  have  never  read  over  a  single  sen- 
tence, much  less  a  paragraph,  of  what  I 
have  written  to  you  ;  it  would  seem  shock- 
ing to  me.  When  I  am  obscure,  ah,  you 
must  guess  me,  darling !  I  cannot  help 
you.  Guess,  since  you  have  the  wisdom  as 
well  as  the  beauty  of  a  goddess. 


HIS  LETTERS  •  XII 

As  for  what  you  say  about  recognizing  a 
perfume,  it  isn't  worthy  of  you.  You  will- 
fully misunderstand  me.  I  had  to  speak  of 
those  other  letters  in  order  to  explain  the 
impression  which  yours  made.  You  ordered 
me  to  do  so.  It  is  not  generous  to  impute 
to  me  a  cheap  and  vulgar  affectation.  But, 
alas  !  although  a  goddess,  you  are  a  woman, 
and  I  thank  God  you  are. 

How  could  those  people  so  misjudge  you  ? 
Would  that  I  might  build  an  altar  fit  for 
your  white  feet  to  rest  upon.  In  all  that  I 
said  to  them  there  was  not  one  word,  not 
one  phrase  which  I  did  not  think  to  be  the 
truth — ah,  so  much  less  than  the  truth — but 
less  I  had  to  say  for  your  sake,  my  love,  my 
love.  If  there  is  a  cabal  against  you,  it  is 
that  dog  A.  who  has  instigated  it;  I  think 
I  may  well  guess  why.  What  joy  I  take  in 
insulting  him  !  But  your  name  I  cannot 
hear  without  a  flush.  I  had  a  proof  only 
this  morning  that  my  power  of  self-control 
is  strangely  weak  where  you  are  concerned. 
As  a  rule  I  take  off  my  collar,  fearing  to 
ruffle  and  rumple  it  as  I  lie  tossing  in  my 
bed  ;  but  last  night  I  kept  it  on.  I  had 


112  HIS  LETTERS 

had  distress  enough  that  day,  and  I  thought 
it  would  soothe  me.  This  morning,  when 
my  man  came  to  give  me  my  bath,  "You 
have  a  string,  sir,  round  your  neck,"  he 
said.  I  felt,  I  know,  that  I  got  crimson,  and 
I  untied  it  in  a  hurry.  Now,  if  I  have  no 
more  self-command  than  this  before  a  ser- 
vant, it  behooves  me  to  so  act  that  nothing 
shall  cloud  the  clearness  and  straightfor- 
wardness of  my  look. 

Good-by,  good-by  !  I  thank  you  for  the 
way  you  addressed  this  last  letter. 

Letter  Thirty-fifth. 

You  say,  in  speaking  of  the  "  Kreutzer 
Sonata,"  "  I  have  read  that  terrible  book. 
I  do  not  shrink  from  acknowledging  it.  I 
have  read  it,  and  you  are  all  wrong,  all 
wrong.  Why  should  an  agonized  confes- 
sion, wrung  from  the  repentant  murderer 
Posdnicheff — saved  from  death  only  by  a 
quibble  of  the  law — be  the  expression  of  the 
personal  experience  of  that  great  moralist 
and  poet,  Tolstoi  ?  I  am  amazed  at  you. 
Why  so  misjudge  him  ?  Could  the  author 
of  '  Anna  Karenina '  not  have  known  love, 


HIS  LETTERS  "3 

yea  and  all  things  ?  Why  should  an  appeal 
for  purity  of  morals  in  men  .before,  nay, 
during  marriage,  so  scandalize  the  world  ? 
What  hypocrisy !  Tolstoi  is  a  happy  hus- 
band and  a  loving  father.  He  has  not 
chilled  or  killed  his  wife.  This  book  paints 
coarse  animal  propensities,  unrelieved  by 
one  spark  of  intellect,  one  gleam  of  high 
aspiration,  in  a  life  spent  idly  without  regu- 
lar engrossing  and  healthful  occupation — 
where  could  they  lead  unless  to  despair  and 
to  crime  ?  A  frightful  portraiture,  but  true 
— true.  And  if  more  probable  in  the  Slav 
than  in  the  Saxon  temper,  it  is  possible  even 
here.  Its  warnings  should  be  heeded." 

I  beg  your  pardon,  I  daresay  you  are 
right  .  .  .  but  do  such  books  reach  their 
purposes  ?  Do  they  not  rather  produce  de- 
pression and  hopelessness  in  minds  striving 
to  uplift  themselves  ?  I  know  not.  I  can 
only  say  that  it  depressed  me.  Grave  ques- 
tions these  we  will  discuss  anon.  You  say 
that,  "  There  is  one  mistake  the  great  Rus- 
sian makes  when  he  says  that  a  pure  young 
girl  wants  children — children,  not  a  lover. 
This  is  not  true  ;  a  girl  does  not  want  chil- 


H4  HIS  LETTERS 

dren,  nor  does  she  dislike  the  thought  of 
them.  That  is  all  vague  to  her — a  matter 
of  indifference.  What  she  does  want  is  the 
lover,  not  the  husband,  the  lover — that 
'  homage  of  the  dim  boudoir,'  which  so  often 
marriage  forfeits." 

Yes,  you  are  right — and  also  in  what  you 
say — that  "  man,  through  his  sensuality, 
makes  woman  his  enemy,  not  his 
ally." 

.  .  .  Not  even  to  spare  you  annoyance,  or 
shield  myself  from  your  displeasure,  could 
I  ever  tell  you  an  untruth.  Then  I  should 
feel  even  more  utterly  unworthy  of  a  kind 
thought  from  you  than  I  do  now.  I  am 
not  a  good  man,  Heaven  knows,  but  I  can, 
at  least,  admire  the  paradise  that  a  seraphic 
wisdom  had  made  of  Peru  before  the  Span- 
iard spoiled  it.  You  know,  I  dare  say — you 
know  everything — that  the  Incas  framed  a 
penal  code  of  unparalleled  simplicity.  They 
began  by  decreeing  the  fundamental  law, 
"  He  that  uttereth  the  thing  that  is  not, 
shall  surely  be  put  to  death."  After  this 
law  had  been  mercilessly  enforced  for  gen- 
erations, they  discovered  that  they  needed 


HIS  LETTERS  11$ 

rro  other  penal  statutes.  The  lie  extinct,  all 
crime  was  dead. 

It  was  a  tender  heart  that  prompted  you 
to  ask  me  certain  questions.  Ah,  you  know 
how  to  chasten  and  purify  the  man  that 
loves  you. 

My  mother !  How  strange  it  is  !  I  sel- 
dom, very  seldom,  speak  of  her.  I  have 
not,  until  lately,  thought  of  her  so  often  as 
I  ought.  But  it  is  sweet  to  speak  of  her  to 
you.  It  is  she  that  whispers  to  you  when  I 
am  at  my  best,  and  throb  responsive  only  to 
the  noblest  and  best  element  of  the  com- 
plex, all-embracing  feeling  that  you  have 
kindled  in  my  breast. 

At  other  times  I  think  it  is  my  father — 
and  the  far  worse  man  that  life  has  made  of 
me — whom  you  hear  when  you  tell  me  that 
it  is  poison  I  distill. 

Ah,  that  was  an  ideal  marriage !  No 
wonder  that  I  have  been  chasing  love's 
counterfeits ;  for,  indeed,  I  was  love's  child. 
I  believe  that  two  human  beings  never  gave 
themselves  to  one  another  with  such  utter 
self-surrender ;  and  I  was  the  first-born. 
He  died  young.  She  lingered  for  two 


Il6  HIS  LETTERS 

years,  and  then  died  at  twenty-three.  She 
had  the  face  of  a  Madonna,  and  I  know  she 
had  the  soul  of  one  ;  for  long  afterward, 
when  I  was  able  to  weep  over  them,  I  read 
some  letters  which  she  had  kept  during  her 
short  married  life,  and  which,  so  long  as 
she  was  living,  no  eye  but  hers  had  seen. 
Through  the  two  years  after  she  had  lost 
him  she  was  always  praying,  praying — he 
was  not  religious,  he  was  more  like  me,  but 
he  loved  her — that  at  last,  in  the  hour  of 
dissolution,  her  faith  might  become  his. 
The  poor  soul  shuddered  at  the  thought 
that  in  the  heaven  she  was  bound  to,  she 
might  seek  him  piteously,  wildly,  and  not  find. 

For  me,  too,  she  was  always  praying,  for 
me !  But  there  is  no  God,  no  God  that 
answereth  a  prayer.  Yet  I  have  thought 
that  sometimes  of  late  she  has  looked  upon 
me  with  a  smile,  a  smile  sad  and  wistful  as 
a  tear ;  but  yet  a  smile,  as  she  saw  me  once 
more  yearning  for  things  noble  and  things 
beautiful. 

Her  ...  I  saw  but  once.  So  young  I 
was  that  I  can  only  remember  seeing  her 
that  once ;  that  morning  when  my  nurse 


HIS  LETTERS  II? 

took  me  up  to  the  darkened  chamber,  and 
drew  down  the  white  cloth  shrouding  the 
eyes  now  closed  forever.  And  I  screamed, 
and  knew  not  why.  Oh  !  my  tears  are  fall- 
ing on  this  paper.  Take  those,  dear,  take 
those !  .  .  . 

.  .  .  Was  I  once  heard  to  say  that  Myra 
was  nicer  than  Gwendolen  ?  It  must  have 
been  in  a  hopeless,  disappointed  mood, 
when  it  seemed  to  me  that  rather  with 
those  pale,  soft-eyed  seraphs  than  with  the 
women  that  enslave  would  men  find  heaven's 
peace.  Ah,  had  I  painted  what  you  have 
painted,  over  and  over  again  would  I  say  to 
myself,  "  Is  it  possible  that  I  have  done 
this  ?  " 

Ah  !  could  I  but  have  known  you  ten 
years  ago,  I  might  by  this  time  have  done 
something  of  which  I  should  not  feel 
ashamed.  But  it  is  not  too  late.  I  am  ten 
years  younger  than  Caesar  was  at  Pharsalia, 
and  not  a  day  older  than  he  was  when  he 
wept  that  as  yet  he  had  accomplished 
nothing.  Just  think  !  he  had  done  nothing 
but  flirt  with  women  and  get  into  debt  be- 
fore he  was  fifty. 


Farewell !  beloved,  forget  me  not,  and 
remember  that  I  only  live  in  you. 

Letter  Thirty-sixth. 

Let  me  set  that  proud  and  tender  heart 
at  rest  forever  on  two  points.  Would  that 
I  could  as  easily  clear  my  mind  of  a  mis- 
giving which  a  little  word  you  dropped 
once  has  caused  to  haunt  me.  Happily, 
I  can  set  your  heart  at  rest,  beloved,  without 
altering  or  veiling  the  truth  by  so  much 
as  a  shade  ;  and  I  am  so  glad  of  that,  for  I 
want  to  keep  your  respect. 

I  have  never  in  my  life  had  any  letters — 
until  I  began  to  receive  some  in  a  certain 
handwriting — that  I  cared  to  read  more 
than  twice,  and  not  one  for  years  that  I  have 
read  but  once.  But  these  others,  oh,  these 
others !  There  is  not  one  of  them  that  I 
have  not  read  over  a  dozen  times,  and  some 
a  hundred  times.  What  else  could  I  do? 
There  is  no  woman  breathing,  I  think  none 
ever  breathed,  who  could  write  such  letters. 
Heavens !  How  much  culture,  wisdom, 
genius,  poetry,  romance  is  there  commingled, 
by  an  unheard-of  alchemy,  with  how  much 


HIS  LETTERS  119 

fire,  vitality,  and  passion !  Oh,  some  of 
those  letters  would  call  a  man  back  from 
the  grave.  "His  heart  would  hear  them 
and  beat,  were  it  earth  in  an  earthy  bed." 
I  thank  God  that  through  them  I  have 
known  an  angel's  visits,  though  they  have 
been  short,  too  short,  and  woe  is  me !  per- 
haps not  meant  to  last.  For  you  said  once 
— I  can  forget  nothing — that  about  your 
own  constancy  you  had  grave  doubts.  Of 
course  you  have,  of  course  you  have ;  but 
what  a  dreadful  thought  for  me !  But  I 
must  not  dwell  on  that.  Let  me  be  happy 
for  a  little  time.  The  night  will  come. 

And  now  listen,  and  believe  while  I  an- 
swer the  other  question.  It  is  true,  as  I 
once  told  you,  that  I  never  write  letters. 
In  twenty  years  I  have  not  written  so 
many  letters  as  I  have  in  the  last  few 
weeks.  Even  when  I  ought,  in  common 
gentleness  and  decency,  I  write  but  very 
little.  But  it  was  not  so  much  of  the  quan- 
tity as  of  the  kind  of  letters  you  were  think- 
ing. On  that  score,  too,  you  have  no  cause 
for  doubt.  When  I  said  that  sometimes  I 
could  express  myself  with  vigor  and  infectious 


120  HIS  LETTERS 

realism,  I  was  not  thinking  of  letters  at  all. 
I  had  in  mind  certain  attacks  I  had  made 
on  men.  Ah,  I  can  cut  to  the  bone.  But 
I  never  before  wanted  to  use  power  to  win 
and  not  to  wound.  Never  in  my  life  had  I 
written  one  letter  which  I  should  care  if  all 
the  world  should  see.  I  know  not  what 
prophetic  instinct  made  me  so  reserved  and 
frigid  in  my  style.  It  is  the  same  instinct 
that  has  always  made  me  shrink  from  men- 
tioning so  much  as  a  lady's  name  in  talk 
with  other  men.  And  even  of  those  that 
were  not  ladies  I  have  never  allowed  myself 
to  speak,  except  with  reticence  and  a  sem- 
blance of  respect.  Ah,  the  men  who  really 
know  me  could  tell  you  a  strange  thing 
about  me.  I  am  not  a  bit  better  than 
others ;  perhaps  not  half  so  good — you  think 
not — and  yet  they  would  tell  you  that  never 
was  a  coarse  word  heard  to  pass  my  lips  ; 
and  that  no  man  ever  ventured  more  than 
once  to  tell  such  stories  as  men  sometimes 
tell,  in  my  presence.  But  it  is  true,  oh,  it 
is  true  that  when  a  man  is  utterly  in  love 
there  is  no  such  thing  as  impurity  ;  every- 
thing is  beautiful,  etherealized,  glorified. 


7/75  LETTERS  12 1 

There  is,  no  mad  dream  of  passion  which 
does  not  seem  worthy  of  a  god.  It  is 
strange,  is  it  not,  that  I  should  have  kept 
always  that  outward  purity  and  modesty  ? 
You  will  understand  the  mournful  contra- 
dictions of  my  life  if  you  remember  the 
scene  I  once  revealed  to  you,  when  a  poor 
little  child  of  five,  a  little  golden-haired  boy, 
realized  in  one  awful  moment  that  he  was 
cast  helpless  upon  a  brutal  world.  I  was 
pitched  into  a  boarding-school  no  worse 
than  others — all  are  bad.  Oh,  don't,  don't 
tell  me  I  have  lost  something  I  never 
can  regain  !  Ah,  many  and  many  a  sad 
night  of  late  I  have  sobbed  and  sobbed  and 
sobbed  in  anguish  to  think  I  was  not  better. 
Ah,  take  me,  take  me  as  I  am  !  There  are 
still  left  in  me  some  stirrings,  yearnings, 
echoes  of  what  I  might  have  been,  and 
what,  alas  !  you  wish  I  was. 

Letter   Thirty-seventh. 

I  do  not  believe  to-night  that  I  ever  shall 
see  you.  How  delighted  you  will  be  to  kill 
my  hope  !  Well,  I  have  your  picture  to  com- 
fort me.  You  cannot  rob  me  of  that.  It 


122  HIS  LETTERS 

has  been  a  great  comfort  to  me  during  the 
last  few  days.  I  am  not  so  much  afraid 
of  the  mouth  and  chin  as  I  was  at  first. 
Nevertheless,  I  am  in  a  sufficiently  timorous 
and  abject  condition. 

Apropos  of  abjectness,  I  saw  a  photo- 
graph of  the  Czarina  lately.  The  thought 
ran  through  my  head,  "  This  mistress  of 
all  the  Russias  looks  as  if  she  too  might 
have  a  slender  foot,  but  she  could  never  set 
it  on  my  neck.  That  is  pre-empted." 

Has  not  a  letter  miscarried  ?  You  speak 
of  having  inclosed  in  one  something  about 
your  little  dog.  I  have  never  received 
that.  If  you  are  quite  certain  that  you 
sent  it,  will  you  not  tell  me  when  and  how, 
whether  by  post  or  servant ;  then  I  will 
investigate. 

Later,  i  A.  M. — Ah,  it  is  literally  true 
that  at  this  instant  I  arise  from  dreams  of 
thee. 

I  have  wondered  why  I  did  not  always 
dream  of  one,  while  sleeping,  from  whom, 
in  my  waking  hours,  I  never  can  escape. 
Perhaps  It  was  a  blind,  sullen  effort  of 
nature  to  relieve  the  heart  and  brain ;  but 


HIS  LETTERS  123 

if  so,  my  will  at  last  has  subdued  the  inci- 
dent of  reaction,  and  I  trust  that  henceforth 
you  will  never  be  absent. 

I  have  read  your  letter  of  yesterday  a 
hundred  times.  There  is  a  part  of  it  which 
grieves  me  the  more  the  oftener  I  read  it, 
but  I  will  not  reproach  you  ;  I  could  not 
frame  the  words.  I  only  say  to  myself 
sadly,  "  Of  how  slow  a  growth  is  trustful- 
ness ! "  You  see,  dear,  you  began  with  a 
strong  warp  and  decided  bias  against  me, 
and  since  I  will  not  lie  to  you — I  would  as 
soon  think  of  lying  to  God — it  is  a  hard  and 
Sisyphean  labor  to  conquer  preconception 
and  rehabilitate  myself  a  little  in  your  eyes. 
Alas,  I  may  not  even  peep  over  a  fence 
which  others  may  jump  over.  That  is  a 
part  of  my  punishment. 

What  do  I  expect  of  a  woman  ?  I  don't 
expect  anything  of  "a"  woman  ;  for  experi- 
ence has  taught  me  that  I  should  be  dis- 
appointed. But  all  that  I  could  wish  of 
one  woman  is  that  she  should  simply  be 
herself,  and  that  is  you. 

You  speak  of  Myra,  you  speak  of  De- 
ronda ;  he  never  interested  me,  I  cannot 


124  MSS  LETTERS 

even  understand  him.  He  is  a  woman's 
man.  I  say  it  not  invidiously,  but  scarcely 
any  of  George  Eliot's  men  are  vital.  But 
about  Myra ;  she  is  the  Madonna  type. 
Of  course  she  of  Bethlehem  was  just  such  a 
Jewess.  No  man  fit  to  live  at  all  could  fail 
to  worship  her ;  but  how  could  there  possi- 
bly be  any  hunger  in  the  worship  ?  Not 
only  would  one  be  upon  one's  knees,  but 
the  head  would  be  dropped,  not  lifted. 
One  would  be  content  to  know  her  with  the 
ear,  and  not  the  eye.  One  would  never 
feel  a  wild  impulse  to  look  up  and  let  one's 
gaze  wander  longer,  fastened  on  her  face  or 
on  her  figure. 

Gwendolen  ?  a  hundredfold  more  human 
and  therefore  more  lovable.  That  sweet 
passion  was  invented  to  glorify  poor  human 
clay.  I  despise  Deronda  for  not  loving 
her.  What  was  he  made  of  ?  Marble  ? 
Snow  ?  Great  Heavens  !  couldn't  the  man's 
soul  find  scope  and  spur  enough  for  vibra- 
tion and  expansion  in  her  contrition,  aspira- 
tion, agony,  despair?  And  was  she  not 
fair  to  see,  and  is  that  nothing,  nothing  to 
a  man  ? 


HIS  LETTERS  125 

But,  ah  !  that  searching,  piercing  ques- 
tion that  you  put  to  me  in  that  same  letter ! 
"  Was  it  with  my  heart  or  my  intellect  that 
I  revered  nobility  and  exaltedness  ? "  Oh, 
it  is  miraculous  that  a  woman  should  be 
able  to  sink  a  shaft  like  that  down  to  the 
roots  of  a  man's  nature.  Ah,  how  some 
people  must  dread  your  eyes  !  I  fear  them 
not.  Let  them  plunge  in  me  as  deep  as 
ever  plummet  sounded,  and  they  can  dis- 
cover nothing  but  love,  dear — love  for  you. 
That  question — it  made  me  probe  and  ran- 
sack myself  as  nothing  in  my  life  had  done/ 
Could  I  have  had  such  shaking,  stimulating 
questions  put  to  me  ten  years  ago,  I  would 
by  this  time  have  achieved  something  de- 
serving your  respect.  Even  though  I  have 
pondered  it  long  and  anxiously,  I  have  not 
yet  managed  to  answer  it ;  but  I  will  find 
the  answer,  and  you  shall  have  it,  no 
matter  how  it  may  damage  me  in  your 
esteem.  There  is  nothing  could  damage 
me  irreparably  in  my  own  eyes  but  to  de- 
ceive you. 

Now  I  am  going  to  lie  down  again  and 
take    your    last    letter,    oh,    my    beloved, 


126  HIS  LETTERS 

sweetest,  dearest  darling,  with  me.  Good- 
night ! 

Later. — Oh,  there  was  another  passage 
in  that  letter  which  ravished  me,  plunged 
me  in  a  frenzy.  Tell  me,  tell  me,  did  you 
also  intend  that  ?  You  must  mean  what 
you  accomplish.  Your  touch  is  too  sure, 
too  infallible,  too  resistless  not  to  be 
meant.  My  God,  how  can  one  of  thy 
creatures  have  such  stupendous  power  over 
another?  Why,  with  a  word,  an  image,  a 
vision  evoked  on  paper,  you  can  do  more 
"with  men  than  Argive  Helen  could  with 
her  embraces. 

I  didn't  mean  to  rave  again  like  this.  I 
will  be  invigorating.  I  shall  write  you  to- 
morrow only  about  your  talent. 

Letter    Thirty-eighth. 

Of  course  I  shall  come.  I  could  not  dis- 
obey you,  but  I  would  if  I  could ;  for  think 
what  you  have  said,  "  We  must  not  meet 
often."  How,  then,  am  I  to  live?  How 
can  people  say  such  things  ?  I  could  not. 
Ah,  can  you  not  see,  for  a  man  with  such  a 
heart  as  mine,  to  see  you  once  and  scarcely 


ffZS  LETTERS  12 7 

any  more  would  be  death  ?  I  some- 
times wonder  how  God  measures  us  mor- 
tals, and  whether,  looking  down,  he  does 
not  think  me  too  good  for  any  woman. 
Believe  me,  his  rules  of  judgment  must  be 
different  from  ours.  I  shall  seem  cold  be- 
cause I  am  a  little  afraid  of  you.  Yes,  you 
divined  it ;  but  that  is  just  the  reason  why 
I  must  go.  A  man  must  do  the  things  he 
is  afraid  of.  Oh,  you  hurt  me  when  you 
tell  me  that  I  am  so  poor  a  masker  that 
even  fools  would  see  what  I  feel.  I 
thought  myself  so  skillful.  I  am  ashamed, 
ashamed.  I  fear  to  harm  you.  Oh,  I  don't 
want  to  go  and  see  you — I  don't — I  don't — 
but  I  must. 


CHAPTER  II. 

IT  was  some  fatality  that  took  me  to  her 
house  on  that  very  afternoon,  and  I  know 
it  was  an  accident  by  which  I  was  admitted. 
Someone  evidently  was  expected ;  but  I 
felt,  as  men  of  some  experience  feel,  instinc- 
tively— men  who  know  something  of  femi- 
nine intricacies — that  it  was  not  I.  As  I 
ascended  the  stairs  I  heard  the  butler  whis- 
per a  word  of  reproof  to  the  footman  in  the 
hall,  and  the  little  dog,  who  sat  on  one  leg 
warming  his  nose  by  the  fire,  snapped  and 
growled  in  sympathetic  reprobation. 

I  noticed,  too,  that  the  hand  which  I 
raised  to  my  lips  on  entering  was  a  trifle 
cold.  Her  graceful  back  was  reflected  in 
the  looking-glass,  with  the  coil  of  her  dusky 
hair.  She  moved  forward  a  step  or  two  to 
greet  me  in  her  suave  accents. 

There  was  always  something  peculiar 
about  her  voice,  something  which  suggested 

128 


H/S  LETTERS  129 

nature — nature  as  one  feels  her  influences 
in  the  drowsy  hum  of  insects  on  summer 
nights,  in  the  twitter  of  birds  in  the  leaves, 
in  the  beating  assonance  of  waves  on  the 
shore,  the  flutter  in  the  glad  meadows,  the 
gayety  of  sunlit  fields.  There  were  grave 
notes  and  measured  ones,  and  then  sudden 
vibrations,  as  of  the  gurgling  kamichi  in  the 
forest  branches,  at  the  time  of  its  love  mak- 
ing. "  A  sweet,  low  voice,"  people  said, 
speaking  of  her.  Insufficient  adjectives  ! 

She  seated  herself  on  the  sofa,  and  I 
found  a  chair  near  to  her.  We  fell  to  talk- 
ing of  common  things — of  the  world,  its 
obligations,  its  exactions.  I  told  her  I  was 
deputed  to  organize  a  party  on  winter 
pleasures  bent,  which  I  hoped  that  she 
would  honor  us  by  joining.  We  were  to 
pass  a  few  days  for  the  carnival  at  Mon- 
treal ;  thence  wing  a  rapid  flight  through 
Canada's  frozen  plains  to  the  coast. 

"  Ah,  yes  ;  Mrs.  Heathcote  invited  me,  but 
I  don't  know  what  is  the  matter,  I  have  an 
ungregarious  fit  on,  Mr.  Milburn." 

"  Is  it  the  detaining  brush  ?  " 

"  Not  a  bit.     I  am  doing  nothing  at  my 


13°  HIS  LETTERS 

work  now,  nothing.  No ;  who  knows  ? 
Perhaps  I  am  indolent,  or  perhaps  I  am 
falling  in  love?"  She  posed  this  as  a  ques- 
tion, with  an  ascending  inflection,  arrested 
on  her  lip. 

"  I  don't  believe  a  word  of  it.  Mrs. 
Heathcote  herself  is  not  more  impreg- 
nable." 

"  Ah,  dear  Antoinette,  she  is  not  the 
creature  the  world  thinks  her  !  And  you 
have  the  Greshams,  too,  riest-ce pas  ?  Who 
is  the  fair  Constance  destroying  now?  I 
hear,  however,  she  is  reforming.  And 
Norah  Eustis — Horace  is  in  the  West  I 
think — will  she  be  one  of  you  ?  Take  care, 
Mr.  Milburn  ;  if  Constance  is  veiling  her 
lovely  eyes  I  believe  Norah's  are  opening 
of  late." 

"  So  Mrs.  Maury  was  telling  me." 

"Ah,  Nelly,  your  cousin.  There's  chic 
for  you  !  I  adore  Nelly.  She  has  been 
beating  at  my  door  for  a  fortnight,  and  I 
have  denied  myself.  I  am  afraid  of  Nelly. 
There  is  no  resisting  the  creature.  If  I 
had  opened  to  her,  I  would  have  been  half- 
way to  Canada  already." 


HIS  LETTERS  131 

"Well,  why  not?" 

"Why  not?  Why  not?  Why,  I  ask 
you,  and  for  all  answer  you  say  I  am  im- 
pregnable." 

"  Ah,  yes,  and  impenetrable,  as  you  women 
must  be  whom  the  world  treats  well.  Why 
should  you  be  aught  else,  pray,  but  amiable 
and  calm  ?  Nelly  is  another,  not  much  like 
you,  though.  Nelly's  ideas  of  art  would  be 
the  Trianon  and -marble  fountains  and  the 
matter  of  a  Watteau  frock  or  two  ;  while 
one  feels  that  your  watchwords,  Mrs.  Mon- 
crief,  would  be  nature  and  passion." 

"  Ah  !  I  like  that !  Thank  you.  Yes,  I 
can  well  fancy  that  Mrs.  Maury's  and  my 
artistic  convictions  would  differ.  But  so 
few  of  us  can  follow  out  our  own  ideas. 
Balked  individuality  leads  to  revolt.  I  am 
a  revoltie"  She  sighed. 

"You  are  a  success." 

"  Yet  the  prudes  will  have  none  of  me. 
They  were  shocked  at  my  last  study  of  the 
dancing  nymph.  Do  you  remember  it? 

"  That  poem — yes.  Prudes !  Do  you 
fancy  that  their  tirades  lie  in  the  province 
of  ethics,  as  they  claim  ?  Depend  upon  it, 


I32  &fS  LETTERS 

hysteria  is  their  disease.  They  foam  at 
the  mouth  because  some  women  are  lov- 
able and  men  tell  them  so.  It  is  a  pill  that 
should  be  administered  to  them,  not  a  lec- 
ture/ Why,  they  don't  know  the  depth  of 
their  wound  until  a  careless  finger  has 
probed  it.  Depend  upon  it,  the  prudes  are 
recruited  from  the  ranks  of  the  unloved." 

She  laughed.  "  I  believe  you  must  be 
right ;  I  have  sometimes  thought  so.  So 
you  recommend  me  to  go  on  my  own 
way?" 

"  Why,  of  course,  since  this  means  not 
only  peace  and  health  and  progress,  but  as- 
cent." Through  all  this  persiflage  I  had 
remarked  a  note  of  febrile  agitation,  and 
the  frequent  movement  of  'a  pretty  head 
toward  a  curtained  doorway.  The  por- 
tiere stirred  ;  the  butler's  burly  visage  ap- 
peared between  its  folds.  "Mr.  Thornton," 
he  announced. 

She  turned  to  me,  "  We  have  not 
met  before,  you  know,"  she  said.  "  You 
must  present  your  friend."  And  I  believed 
her  although  it  puzzled  me,  for  I  fancied 
that  her  bosom  rose  and  fell  too  quickly 


ffIS  LETTERS  133 

where  the  roses  were,  and  that  these  paled 
a  little  near  her  heart. 

I  can  see  her  now,  standing  to  receive 
him,  by  the  side  of  a  great  pot  of  tall  lilies. 
The  flowers  almost  shielded  her  from  the 
glance  of  the  newcomer.  Never  had  I  seen 
her  so  womanly  before.  For  there  were 
those  who  accused  her  brilliancy  of  cold- 
ness. Upon  me  Mrs.  Moncrief  had  never 
made  an  impression  of  coldness,  only  of 
being  a  little  weary — weary  of  the  emotions 
she  inspired,  of  that  hot  breath,  as  of  the 
desert,  which  had  always  surrounded  her 
steps,  stirring  in  her  more  lassitude  than  an- 
swering emotion.  If  evil  had  brushed  that 
pure  forehead,  it  had  left  little  trace.  And 
the  depths  her  eyes  revealed — whose  study 
might  become  perilous — told  no  story  of 
her  own  past.  Yet  a  man  would  fain  have 
read  their  mysteries,  even  if  it  brought  to 
him  but  hopelessness.  ' 

Thornton  came  in  quickly,  with  the  move- 
ment of  one  who  should  fall  at  a  woman's 
feet,  .but,  seeing  me,  he  paused  an  instant, 
as  if  discomfited  or  embarrassed.  She  ad- 
vanced and  they  touched  each  other's  fin- 


134  HIS  LETTERS 

gers — no  more.  I  looked  from  her  to  him. 
He  had  entered  with  a  smile  upon  his  face, 
but  now  I  saw  it  change,  and  in  its  stead 
there  swept  an  expression  of  distress  and 
of  anxiety.  He  seemed  to  seek  in  her 
some  assurance  which  he  found  not,  the 
crowning  of  some  hope  long  nursed,  cruelly 
denied. 

"  Would  Galatea  remain  upon  her  pedes- 
tal forever,  while  he  gazed  up  at  her?"  I 
asked  myself  this  question,  lingering.  I 
knew  I  ought  to  go,  I  saw  it ;  yet,  in  my 
r61e  of  student  of  humanity,  am  I  to  blame 
if  I  stopped  a  minute,. while  these  two  be- 
ings of  such  high  instincts,  such  rare  intelli- 
gence, looked  at  and  gauged  each  other. 
"  How  captivating  it  would  be  !  "  I  thought, 
"  should  he  become  the  master  of  what  is 
highest  in  this  woman?  what  proud  conquest 
would  he  make  of  this  strange  soul  of  hers ! 
Would  he  not  win  her  by  surprising  her  ? 
and  should  he  possess  that  wayward  spirit, 
would  he  not  leave  his  mark  upon  it  ?  make 
it  his  forever  ?  " 

And  then  I  took  pity  upon  him — upon 
them  both.  I  looked  up  my  hat  and  cane 


HIS  LETTERS  135 

and  said  "  Good-night."  They  did  not  bid 
me  stay.  I  left  them  thus,  together  and 
alone. 


Letter  Thirty-Ninth. 

WEDNESDAY   NIGHT. 

I  don't  know  what  to  think ;  I  am  torn 
asunder.  Sometimes  I  am  ravished  with 
delight  when  I  look  at  that  little  handker- 
chief, when  I  seize  it,  kiss  it,  crush  it 
against  my  face,  inhale  its  scent,  which  is  so 
strangely  new  and  deadly  sweet  to  me. 
And  is  it  true  that  I  have  touched  that 
flowerlike  thing,  your  hand,  my  goddess 
and  my  queen  ?  seen  you  at  last !  in  all 
your  splendor  and  your  beauty !  But  the 
earth-born  are  insensate.  I  fell  to  thinking 
of  what  you  would  not  give,  of  what  you 
would  not  do ;  and  then  I  dropped  at  once 
from  the  fifth — no,  the  seventh  heaven — 
down  to  the  depths  of  misery.  For  I  saw, 
oh  yes,  I  saw  too  plainly  that  it  was  but  my 
mind  you  liked  ;  that  you — when  you  had 
taken  a  searching  look  at  me — and  your 
looks  were  searching  although  swift — that 


136  HIS  LETTERS 

you  were  disappointed.  And  you  said,  "  I 
would  rather  he  should  write  to  me  than  see 
him."  Ah,  yes  ;  you  did  say  that  to  your 
kind  heart.  Ah,  you  may  like  my  intellect 
a  little,  but  you  find  that  you  can't  like  me. 
Yes,  that  is  what  you  mean.  Alas,  how  can 
you  ?  I  do  not  blame  you  in  the  least. 
And  so  I  was  too  nice  to  tell  you  what 
I  remembered,  that  a  lovely  lady  had  said 
to  me,  that  she  would,  when  she  saw 
me,  touch  my  forehead  with  her  hand. 
You  would  have  been  near  me  then,  I 
would  have  drunk  your  breath.  .  .  It 
was  a  dream,  but  give  me  such  dreams 
above  all  realities,  such  realities  as  I  yet 
have  known.  But  I  love  you  a  hundred 
times  more  than  I  did  yesterday,  since  I 
have  seen  you.  Oh,  what  a  dreadful  fate 
that  is,  to  love  you  more !  When  I  left 
you  I  could  not  come  home.  There  was 
something  too  commonplace  about  the 
associations  of  my  house.  I  told  the  man 
who  was  driving  me  to  take  me  up  the 
river.  I  sat  for  hours  gazing  out  upon  the 
water,  thinking  of  you,  trying  to  puzzle  out 
the  secret  of  your  sweet  ways ;  but  I  can't, 


HIS  LETTERS  137 

you    are   too    enchantingly   deep    for   me. 
The  Sphinx  will  slay  me,  I  foresee  it. 

When  am  I  to  see  you  again  ?  May  I 
come  ?  Say  that  I  may  ;  but  when,  when, 
when,  when  ?  And  then,  for  God's  sake  be 
alone. 

Yours, 

H.  T. 

Letter  Fortieth. 

SUNDAY,  MIDNIGHT. 

I  went  to  bed  at  eight  o'clock  this 
evening ;  think  of  it !  And  I  have  just 
wakened  from  a  deep,  refreshing  sleep. 
Ah,  you  are  indeed  a  wonderful  physician. 
When  I  recall  the  horrible  restlessness  and 
wakefulness  of  the  last  week,  when  every 
nerve  would  quiver  with  anxiety  and  suffer- 
ing, such  happy  slumber  seems  incredible. 
How  wondrous,  how  awful,  when  one  thinks 
of  it,  is  the  part  the  spirit  plays  in  the  life 
of  man.  Between  us  it  has  been  all.  It 
has  needed  but  one  soft  touch  on  your  part 
— no,  the  word  is  not  sufficiently  aerial — 
but  a  breath,  a  thought,  a  gentle  impulse 
to  work  a  revolution  in  the  whole  being  of 


138  HIS  LETTERS 

another.  Oh,  how  could  you  wrong  your- 
self by  saying  once  that  you  were  not 
"very  gentle"?  Why,  you  are  an  angel  of 
compassion. 

That  I  could  not  sleep  much  Saturday 
night,  though  I  had  that  precious  letter 
under  my  pillow,  seems  a  strange  contra- 
diction. I  was  in  a  blissful  swoon  all  that 
afternoon.  You  had  stooped  suddenly 
from  heaven,  and  whispered  something  that 
was  like — oh,  it  was  like  a  kiss.  But  Satur- 
day night,  what  with  reading  over  passages 
in  some  of  your  letters,  over  and  over  and 
over  again — to  reassure  myself  that  my 
eyes  had  not  mocked  me,  and  that  the 
words  were  really  there — and  what  with 
writing  to  you,  and,  all  at  once,  thinking  of 
your  beauty — something  wrought  me  up  to 
a  terrible  excitement,  and  I  lay  awake  for 
hours  in  the  dark,  shivering  and  staring. 
But  to-day  and  to-night  I  have  felt  a 
strange  and  delicious  peace.  Yes,  love 
indeed  has  his  languors  as  well  as  his  rap- 
tures, and  I  know  not  which  is  the  more 
blissful.  Oh,  dearest,  dearest,  dearest,  in 
how  many  ways  I  love  you  !  There  are 


HIS  LETTERS  139 

times  when  I  worship  you  as  if  you  were  a 
saint,  and  to  me  you  are  a  saint.  There 
are  others  when  I  seem  able  to  feel  noth- 
ing but  a  wild  hunger  to  see  your  face,  to 
hear  your  voice,  to  touch  your  hand.  I 
know  not  which  mood  be  sweeter.  They 
are  both  divine. 

What  was  the  impression  made  on  me 
by  your  first  letter,  the  very  first  that  came 
to  me  last  summer  ?  You  see  I  do  not 
need  to  keep  your  letters  to  remember 
every  question.  It  was  not  because  I 
feared  to  forget  a  word  of  them  that  I 
grieved  so  over  their  ashes,  last  Friday 
night.  It  was  because  I  used  to  like  to 
gaze  at  your  handwriting,  and  wonder  how 
you  looked  when  you  wrote  this  or  that ; 
whether  a  faint  smile  wreathed  your  lips,  or 
your  brows  were  curved  in  a  soft  frown. 
And  then  it  sometimes  seemed,  when  I 
pressed  the  pages  in  my  hands,  that  you 
could  somehow  feel  the  pressure.  But  that 
letter !  Ah,  there  are  strange  presenti- 
ments. I  remember  well  the  day  I  found 
it  perched  upon  a  pile  of  books.  There 
was  a  tinge  in  it  that  coaxed  the  eye  ;  the 


140  HIS  LETTERS 

lightest  suggestion  of  a  scent  that  I  liked 
but  did  not  recognize.  I  scanned  the 
superscription  ;  you  know  I  had  not  seen 
your  handwriting  then.  I  had  not  dreamed 
that  you  would  answer  my  little  note. 
This,  I  thought,  is  the  letter  of  a  woman  of 
refinement.  I  tore  it  open  and  glanced 
swiftly  at  the  signature.  "  Ah,"  I  said,  "  it 
is  she  !  "  How  I  had  thought  about  you  ! 
wondered !  how  I  thought  and  wondered 
now  !  "  Let  me  see,"  I  said,  "how  much  I 
can  divine  from  this  note ;  how  much  her 
paint-brush  has  not  taught  me.  With  all 
their  art  they  are  not  quite  so  inscrutable 
as  men  can  be." 

Your  face  I  had  pictured  to  myself. 
Don't  smile ;  your  height  baffled  me. 
Were  you  tall  ?  I  detest  short  women. 
Ah,  you  are  tall,  divinely  tall.  I  probed 
and  weighed  your  every  syllable,  pored 
over  this  little  note,  and  then  took  up  my 
pen  and  wrote  the  stiffest  and  coldest  reply 
that  I'could  frame. 

Is  it  possible  this  can  interest  you  ?  It 
is  full  of  interest  to  me.  But  you  did  not 
guess  I  could  talk  so  long,  I  fear,  in  answer 


HIS  LETTERS  14* 

to  your  careless  question.  Some  other 
time  I  will  tell  you  when  you  first  wounded 
me ;  I  see  now  that  you  meant  not  to 
wound,  but  you  did. 

Later. — Your  letter  has  come.  There 
are  things  in  it  I  cannot  speak  of — I  have 
become  a  slave — you  can  say  anything  in- 
sulting, cruel  to  me  now.  I  can  never 
answer  back  any  more,  never  say  a  word  in 
protest  or  defense.  I  am  almost  glad  to 
have  you  bruise  me.  To  bear  without 
wince  or  outcry  seems  the  only  thing  that 
I  can  do  for  you.  And  when  you  are  un- 
just I  feel  not  quite  so  downcast,  so  heart- 
stricken  at  my  unworthiness.  I  say  with  a 
sad  joy,  "  She  is  not  perfect !  " 

I  would  never  tell  her  that  I  doubted, 
though  I  have  a  hundred  times  more  cause, 
and  though  God  knows  my  soul  is  shaken 
and  sick  with  doubt.  Let  me  speak  no 
other  word  of  that  ;  no,  nor  about  another 
thing — your  going  away.  My  heart  would 
burst.  Ah,  let  me  be  as  those  condemned 
ones  in  the  land  Cortez  won.  They  who 
meant  to  slay  them  never  told  them  the 
day  they  were  to  die.  They  honored  them 


142  HIS  LETTERS 

meanwhile,  and  feasted  them,  and  bade 
them  mark,  in  their  wild  revelry,  how  blithe 
is  earthly  life. 

Must  I  tell  you  in  so  many  words  what 
you  know,  and  I  have  said  a  thousand  times, 
that  I  have  long  been  discouraged,  disillu- 
sioned and  lonely  with  a  loneliness  that 
appalls  and  freezes  like  the  tomb  ?  But 
let  me  say  no  more.  .  .  The  past  is  past. 
Here  is  the  present ;  the  present,  when  I 
know  only  that  I  love  you,  love  you,  love 
you — Ah,  does  the  word  enter  your  heart 
as  it  empties  mine  ?  love  you  with  every 
fiber  of  my  body,  every  outflash  of  my  in- 
tellect, every  pulsation  of  my  soul. 

Will  I  go  to  you  anywhere  where  I  may 
see  you,  speak  to  you,  and  perhaps  clasp 
your  hand  ?  Do  you  ask  it  ?  Do  you  ask 
me  whether  I  will  go  to  Paradise  ? 

Letter  Forty-first. 

MY  DEAR  MADAME  : 

With  your  gracious  permission,  I  will 
forego  the  pleasure  of  seeing  you  to- 
morrow, or  at  any  time  hereafter.  I  per- 
ceive that  I  made  a  profound  mistake  when 


HIS  LETTERS  143 

I  urged  you  to  see  me.  I  should  have 
been  content  to  do  what  no  intelligent  and 
right-minded  man  could  fail  to  do — admire 
your  intellect  and  appreciate  your  heart. 
I  will  confine  myself  hereafter  to  these 
methods  of  regarding  you  ;  but  they  are  of 
course  incompatible  with  the  gratification 
of  the  sense  of  sight.  I  have  been  for 
some  hours  reflecting  on  certain  incidents, 
and  it  is  really  curious  how  near  I  can 
come  to  the  truth,  when  I  take  the  trouble 
to  think  long  and  deeply.  I  am  very  far 
from  asserting  that  your  senses  would 
never  be  stirred  nor  your  passions  inflamed 
beyond  the  point  of  complete  and  utterly 
exemplary  control.  I  am  quite  too  well- 
trained  a  logician  to  base  a  conclusion  on  a 
particular  experience.  Because  I  could 
not  make  you  love  me  as  women  love 
when  they  really  love,  it  does  not  in  the 
least  follow  that  another  may  not.  That 
other  I  certainly  should  consider  highly 
enviable  ;  but  as  envy  is  a  feeling  uncon- 
genial to  my  nature,  I  shall  endeavor  to 
extirpate  it  with  all  possible  promptitude. 
I  hope  that  in  a  few  days,  or  in  a  week 


144  HIS  LETTERS 

at  furthest,  you  will  allow  me  to  write  to 
you  on  topics  entirely  unconnected  with 
any  personal,  selfish  desires  of  mine.  It 
will  take  a  little  time  to  entirely  tranquil- 
lize, clarify,  and  cool  my  mind.  I  have 
heard  of  you  as  a  woman  who  had  made 
many  conquests,  who  had  great  knowledge 
of  the  human  heart.  I  congratulate  you. 
You  are  entirely  at  liberty  to  count  me 
among  the  former  ;  but  kindly  place  me  in 
the  sub-class  that  considered  conquest  suffi- 
cient, and  rebelled  against  torture. 

I  will  never — so  help  me  God  ! — look 
upon  your  face  again.  You  will  be  wholly 
free  for  the  future  from  my  importunities. 

Believe  me,  dear  madame,  with  unshak- 
able respect  and  admiration,  and — if  you  will 
permit  me  to  add — unvarying  friendship, 
Sincerely  yours, 

HUBERT  THORNTON. 

Letter  Forty-second. 

Do  not  expect  me,  neither  to-day  nor 
any  other  time.  Although  you  seem  in- 
credulous, my  letter  expressed  a  deliberate 
and  inflexible  resolve. 


HIS  LETTERS  145 

I  pray  you  will  not  misunderstand  me. 
I  have  arraigned  myself  in  the  forum  of  my 
own  judgment.  I  have  passed  sentence  on 
myself  and  it  will  be  executed.  Two  or 
three  times  in  my  life  I  have  had  occasion 
to  look  suddenly  and  with  great  closeness 
at  a  situation,  and  tell  myself  what  it 
behooved  me  to  do,  if  I  desired  to  re- 
tain my  self-respect.  My  will  has  not, 
as  some  persons  might  imagine,  lost  its 
grip,  and  I  have  always  been  able  to  do 
what  I  saw  I  ought  to  do  to  escape  self- 
contempt. 

I  agree  with  all  wise  people  in  desiring 
to  lead  a  dignified  life.  I  perceive  that  I 
should  inevitably  become  ridiculous.  I  pre* 
fer  to  retire  to  safe  ground.  There  is  one 
stage  upon  which  I  positively  have  made  my 
last  appearance.  I  am  paying  you  a  great 
compliment.  I  know  I  am,  however  you  may 
regard  it,  whether  with  amusement,  or  with 
annoyance  at  seeing  the  fly  escape  the 
spider  ;  for  when  I  renounce  the  hope  of 
being  loved  by  you  I  shall  continue  the 
most  loyal  and  indefatigable  of  friends. 
Of  this  you  will  get  by  and  by  convincing 


146  &IS  LETTERS 

proof.  That  was  the  relation  which,  if  I 
mistake  not,  you  have  always  preferred ; 
and  there  is  no  doubt  that  it  is  the  most 
sane,  the  most  wholesome,  and  perhaps 
most  profitable  to  both.  .  .  If  you  wish 
me  to  speak  to  L.  I  will  certainly  do  so. 
If  you  dread  his  tongue  it  is  enough.  But 
as  for  me,  really  I  love  to  hear  the  buzzing 
of  an  enemy  ;  it  is  music  in  my  ear.  I 
have  several  times  in  my  life  had  cause  to 
say  with  Othello,  when  they  told  him  that 
Brabantio  and  all  of  Desdemonas  relatives 
were  about  to  arraign  him  before  the 
Council  of  Ten  : 

Let  them  do  their  spite  : 
My  services  which  I  will  do  the  seigniory 
Shall  out-tongue  their  complaint. 

Poor  L.  He  is  no  Brabantio,  for 
Brabantio  was  a  senator  ;  but  since  you 
wish  it  I  will  say  something  to  him.  I  will 
ask  him  to  dine. 

With  an  homage  profounder  than  I  feel 
for  any  human  being,  and  with  the  most 
devoted  and  unshakable  friendship,  believe 
me,  dear  lady, 

Sincerely  yours. 


tfIS  LETTERS  147 

Letter  Forty-third. 

Of  course  my  feeling  has  never  wavered. 
It  is  burnt  into  my  heart,  soul,  and  body. 
It  will  live  with  me,  but  not  die  with  me. 

I  know  not  how  you  could  have  misun- 
derstood, but  you  are  the  noblest  woman 
that  ever  lived,  the  purest  and  the  no- 
blest. I  thank  you  for  your  infinite  com- 
passion ...  I  sent  the  handkerchief  back 
because  you  said  farewell  forever,  and  I 
have  always  told  you  that  a  word  from  you 
would  suffice. 

You  have  saved  me ;  oh  thank  you,  thank 
you  !  You  little  know  my  heart — Make  L. 
show  you  a  letter  which  I  wrote  to  him  an 
hour  ago.  Even  under  sentence  of  per- 
petual exile  I  have  but  one  thought,  to 
serve  you.  I  was  faithful — why  not  ?  We 
need  must  love  the  highest  when  we  see  it. 

Letter  Forty-fourth. 

Dearest,  dearest,  I  am  coming  at  nine 
o'clock.  I  cannot  write  another  word.  Oh, 
I  thank  .you,  thank  you  for  the  flowers.  I 
understood  them.  Are  they  not  a  sum- 
mons? 


148  HIS  LETTERS 

Letter  Forty-fifth. 

I  had  gone  out  this  morning  to  try  and 
find  a  few  poor  violets.  I  wanted  to  send 
you  something,  for  I  simply  could  not  write. 
When  I  came  home  I  found  your  note ;  and 
now  I  must  write,  I  feel  such  a  brute.  I 
will  never,  never  say  an  ungentle  word  to 
you  again.  When  I  wrote  that  last  word  I 
was  mad  with  disappointment,  I  had  fallen 
into  great  despair.  I  wonder  will  you  un- 
derstand exactly  what  my  feelings  were ; 
for  sometimes  you  seem  to  know  what  I  am 
feeling  before  I  speak,  and  you  write  under 
precisely  the  same  impulse.  It  is  as  if  a 
thought  could  scarcely  take  shape  in  my 
mind  without  its  fellow  thought  being  born 
in  yours.  Had  you  been  a  little  kinder  to 
me  on  Wednesday,  I  should  not  have  had 
that  dreadful  sinking  of  the  heart  yester- 
day. You  had  been  kind,  but  not  half  so 
kind  as  you  had  said  you  would  be.  Ah,  I 
know  it  is  not  nice  to  remind  you  of  those 
sweet  words  of  yours — I  only  do  it  to  ex- 
plain myself — I  never  will  admit  that  I  re- 
member them  again — but  compared  with 


UTS  LETTERS  149 

them  you  were  cold  ;  don't  you  think  you 
were?  And  to  what  could  I  ascribe  the 
refrigeration  except  to  your  having  been 
disappointed  when  you  looked  at  me  and 
compared  me  with  the  man  who  wrote  you 
the  letters  which  you  had  sweetly  said  you 
liked  ?  I  cannot  be  surprised  at  it.  But  it 
is  a  terribly  bitter  thing  to  me,  who  found 
you  a  thousand  times  more  fascinating, 
more  maddening  than  I  had  thought  or 
dreamed  you.  .  .  .  Well,  with  these  mis- 
givings racking  me,  shall  you  be  angry  if  I 
tell  you  that  I  asked  myself  whether  your 
indisposition  was  not  feigned  to  enable  you 
to  adjourn  indefinitely  a  meeting  for  which 
you  found  you  cared  but  little  ?  You 
had  looked  to  me  the  very  goddess  of 
health.  Your  scarlet  lips  were  like  twin 
flames,  and  your  eyes  positively  radiated  ; 
and  though,  of  course,  my  intellect  did  not 
for  a  second  dispute  that  now  you  were  ill, 
my  heart  could  not  avoid  a  faint  shiver  of 
distrust.  Ah,  as  you  once  said  so  truly, 
affection  is  one  thing  and  love  is  quite  an- 
other. Distrust,  doubt,  suspicion,  restless- 
ness, are  the  inseparable  symptoms  of  the 


ISO  tfIS  LETTERS 

real  malady;  a  malady  indeed  it  is,  a  mal- 
ady for  which  there  is  no  remedy.  Posses- 
sion is  a  palliation  of  its  deepest  miseries, 
perhaps,  then,  it  may  be  that  one  would 
have  complete  faith — just  for  a  little  while 
— but  the  torture  would  begin  again.  Tor- 
ture !  Yes  !  but  terrible  as  I  find  it,  I  would 
rather  feel  it  than  any  so-called  pleasure 
that  another  human  being  could  bestow. 

Letter  Forty-sixth. 

AFTER  MIDNIGHT. 

I  did  not  think  I  could  love  you  better 
than  I  did,  and  yet,  since  our  explanation 
this  afternoon,  I  do.  Heavens !  no  man 
ever  loved  a  woman  as  much  as  I  love  you. 
No  one  could,  because  there  never  was  such 
a  woman.  I  have  read  history,  as  very  few 
have  read  it,  to  find  the  women  in  it.  That 
is  why  it  is  interesting  to  hear  me  talk  his- 
tory. That  is  why  you  feel  blood  and  life 
in  it.  And  I  know  there  has  never  lived  a 
woman  like  you. 

After  leaving  you,  I  had  to  drive  out  to 
the  country.  Whenever  I  have  been  happy 
near  you,  I  crave  motion,  air,  a  wide  hori- 


HIS  LETTERS  151 

zon,  the  things  that  eagles  have.  And 
when  I  came  home,  I  shut  myself  up  and 
pulled  out  your  portrait,  and  I  gloated  over 
it.  Oh,  the  thought  that  this  magnificent 
creature,  this  radiant  goddess  actually 
should  care  for  me  a  little,  filled  me  with 
such  intoxication  that  I  almost  lost  my 
reason.  .  .  .  Say  it  again  to  me,  darling,  say 
it  again !  Plunge  me  into  ecstasy  ...  I 
have  been  dreaming  of  you  such  sweet 
dreams !  We  were  wandering  in  some  lotus 
land  of  enchantment,  where  all  things  spoke 
of  love  and  summer.  Ah,  I  loved  you  .  .  . 
Yes,  your  talents  are  virile,  they  are,  in- 
deed ;  but  all  the  rest,  your  heart  and 
body,  is  so  intensely  witchingly,  madden- 
ingly feminine.  You  exhale  love ;  you  are 
a  flower.  I  should  think  that  all  little  birds 
and  lovely  insects,  like  butterflies,  must  cir- 
cle round  you  in  the  spring-time. 

In  what  new  dress,  in  what  new  guise 
will  she  meet  me  to-morrow  ?  I  know  not — 
I  may  not  recognize  her  at  first,  but  surely 
I  shall  say,  (<  This  is  some  daughter  of  Zeus 
that  blazes  thus  upon  my  vision  !" 

A  demain,  peerless  one. 


I5«  HIS  LETTERS 

Letter  'Forty-Seventh. 

AT  NIGHT,  2.30. 

I  have  not  slept.  I  have  got  up  to  speak 
to  you.  I  can  find  only  this  scrap  of  paper 
and  no  pen.  How  lovely  you  looked  to- 
day !  the  loveliest  woman  upon  the  earth  to 
me.  And  what  a  voice  you  have,  and  what 
airiness,  grace,  sweetness  of  speech.  Ah,  if 
I  were  blind  I  must  have  loved  you.  Yet  I 
have  never  puzzled  myself  with  seeking  to 
discover  the  secret  of  your  strange  power 
over  me.  I  am  satisfied  to  feel  it ;  I  don't 
want  to  know.  The  very  thought  of  trying 
to  analyze  you  is  shocking  to  me.  It  would 
seem  sacrilegious.  I  would  not  exchange 
one  little  word  from  you,  no,  nor  your 
littlest  finger,  for  all  that  the  next  loveliest 
could  say  or  give.  I  simply  love  you,  love 
you.  You  make  me  understand  all  the 
foolish,  beautiful,  impossible,  preposterous 
things  that  men  have  done  for  love.  I  com- 
prehend human  life  as  it  is  and  will  be  so 
incomparably  better  for  knowing  you.  You 
might  cast  me  off  to-morrow,  as  I  dare  say 
you  will,  and  I  should  still  feel  myself 


HIS  LETTERS  153 

deeply  grateful  to  you  for  the  thoughts  and 
emotions  and  wishes  that  you  have  evoked. 
Whatever  happens  I  shall  never  be  the 
same  man  hereafter  that  I  was  before.  You 
have  made  me  think  better,  not  only  of  all 
womankind,  but  of  the  whole  human  race. 
God  bless  you  ! 

Later. — You  were  en  beautd  to-day  ;  you 
knew  it.  You  will  be  resplendent  at  the 
ball,  and  alas  !  I  shall  not  see  you. 

Listen,  dearest,  you  believe,  do  you  not, 
for  you  have  told  me  so,  that  I  am  free  from 
little  egotisms.  Well,  if  you  do  think  that, 
why  is  it — don't  be  illogical — why  is  it 
that  you  can't  believe  me  capable  of  un- 
selfish love  ?  I  am  capable,  and  I  will 
prove  it  to  you  some  day,  if  you  drive  me 
to  it  by  those  doubts  that  kill  me.  What 
a  fate  is  mine  !  never  to  have  known  love 
until  now,  and  now  not  to  be  believed. 
Try  to  have  faith  in  me ;  you  will  not 
be  sorry.  Remember  you  have  no  right 
to  think  of  anything  but  the  present  and 
the  future.  Good-by  !  but  it  shall  be  only, 
shall  it  not,  for  a  little  while  ?  In  this 
letter  I  send  you  my  whole  heart.  Oh 


154  HIS  LETTERS 

do   not  tear  it   up  and  throw   it  into  the 
street. 

Letter  Forty-Eighth. 

You  will  have  torn  up  my  last  letter.  I 
know  it  does  not  exist  now.  Yet  I  meant 
to  write  gently  ;  I  did,  I  think,  but  coldly. 
A  man  cannot  refresh  anguish  without 
ice.  I  think  it  was  rather  noble  not  to  tell 
you  that  I  was  literally  plunged  into 
despair.  I  am  ashamed,  ashamed  to 
acknowledge  that  of  late,  during  the  last  six 
or  eight  weeks,  I  have  searched  feverishly 
the  papers,  in  the  hope  that  I  might  see 
your  name.  You  know  what  I  saw  yester- 
day. .  .  .  Let  me  tell  you  that  I  tasted  the 
agony  of  death.  I  could  not  breathe  at  all. 
I  rushed  into  the  open  air,  and  walked 
miles,  trying  to  collect  my  senses.  You 
had  told  me  one  thing,  and  here  I  saw 
recorded  another.  "  O  God  !  "  I  thought, 
"  there  is  no  such  thing  as  truth  upon  this 
earth.  There  is  no  woman  in  the  world, 
not  one,  in  whom  a  man  can  put  his  faith. 
I  was  right  when  I  said  that  morally  there 
was  not  one  nice  enough  for  me,  I  was 


HIS  LETTERS  155 

glad  that  I  was  going  to  be  free  for  a  few 
days  from  what  seemed  a  dreadful,  shame- 
ful thralldom. 

That  absence  which  I  had  looked  fonvard 
to  with  a  sinking  heart  seemed  to  offer  a 
hope  of  a  short  escape,  a  short  release. 

Ah,  let  me  tell  you  that  the  very  founda- 
tions of  the  earth  seemed  to  have  given 
way.  "  How  can  I,"  I  cried,  "love  a  woman 
who  would  do  that  ?  "  And  yet  I  knew  I 
did  love  her  ;  that  bruise  my  hands  against 
my  chain  as  I  might,  I  could  never,  never, 
never  rend  it  off. 

The  tears  gushed  from  my  eyes.  It 
seemed  to  me  that  even  my  manhood  was 
gone,  my  pride,  the  only  prop  I  had,  was 
lost. 

But  look,  I  had  the  strength  to  tell  you 
not  a  syllable  of  this.  I  never  would  have 
told  you,  did  I  not  know  to-day  that  the 
man  or  woman  who  penned  that  story  lied. 
Oh,  yes,  he  lied  ;  you  tell  me  so,  and  I  must 
always  believe  you.  May  God  leave  me 
this  little  gleam  of  trust.  When  I  cease  to 
believe  you  I  shall  be  that  awful  wreck — a 
man  who  cannot  help  loving  one  whom  he 


156  HIS  LETTERS 

cannot  respect.  You  will  not  chide  or 
blame  me,  I  think,  now  that  I  have  told 
you  all. 

It  breaks  my  heart  to  think  of  you  as 
ill ;  you  who  are  always  the  embodiment 
and  the  picture  of  pure  health.  Oh,  dear- 
est, darling,  eat  something  for  my  sake. 
Drink  the  milk  your  physician  orders ;  get 
well,  get  well  quickly,  for  my  sake.  I  com- 
mand it !  You  will,  you  can  do  it,  for  in  so 
exquisitely  organized  a  being  the  soul  can 
well  command  the  body.  Say  to  yourself, 
"  He  loves  me,  and  he  wishes  it ;  I  will  get 
well ;  I  am  well." 

Letter  Forty-nine. 

Of  course  I  want  to  see  every  line  in 
which  your  name  is  mentioned ;  even  if  I 
do  not  always  like  the  substance  of  what 
you  send  me.  But  I  cannot  say  that  I 
revel  in  this  incident.  Yet  I  love  the  de- 
licious womanly  nature  that  prompted  you 
to  send  it.  Oh,  what  an  exquisite  piece  of 
femininity  you  are  !  There  never  was  any- 
thing so  sweetly,  so  beguilingly,  so  entranc- 
ingly  feminine  as  you  are  in  heart,  soul,  and 


HIS  LETTERS  15  7 

body,  in  your  instincts  and  impulses,  in  gait 
and  gesture,  in  all  your  looks  and  ways  and 
thoughts  and  feelings.  Oh,  you  were  made 
to  bless  the  man  whom  you  should  deign 
to  care  for !  Cleopatra,  Marie  Stuart,  Mar- 
guerite de  Valois  were  kitchen  maids  to  you. 
The  man  whom  the  splendid  Heloise  lets  her 
deep  eyes  dwell  upon  may  well  be  mad  with 
pride  as  well  as  love.  I  am  devoured  with 
both  passions.  Don't  you  wish  it  to  be  so  ? 
But  perhaps  you  don't.  Perhaps  you  would 
rather  have  me  answer  your  questions. 
Let  me  try  then,  dearest,  to  please  you  in 
that  way. 

George  Meredith's  style  ?  His  style  is 
simple  and  lucid  enough  in  dialogue,  and  it 
used  to  be  in  narrative  when,  in  1858,  he 
published  his  first  story,  "  Evan  Harring- 
ton." But  since,  and  more  and  more,  when- 
ever he  speaks  in  his  own  person,  he  has 
chosen  to  be  gnarled,  occult,  inscrutable, 
oracular ;  and  naturally,  readers  are  an- 
noyed, as  they  are  in  the  case  of  Browning, 
to  find  that  the  kernel  really  is  not  worth 
the  difficulty  of  cracking  the  shell.  When 
one  comes  to  think  of  it,  who  is  Meredith 


IS8  ,HIS  LETTERS 

and  who  is  Browning  that  they  should  not 
take  the  trouble  to  make  themselves  as  in- 
telligible at  a  glance,  to  persons  of  moderate 
parts,  like  myself,  for  instance,  as  Shak- 
spere,  Milton,  Victor  Hugo,  Pascal,  Virgil, 
and  Homer  are  ?  It  is  sheer  laziness  or 
ridiculous  conceit,  or  a  mixture  of  both,  and 
verily  they  have  their  reward ;  for  they 
lose,  now  and  hereafter,  nine-tenths  of  the 
readers  they  might  have  had.  Fame  in  the 
highest  sense  cannot  be  theirs.  To  get 
fame  you  must  be  intelligible  to  more  than 
a  little  knot  of  patient,  nut-cracking  dis- 
ciples. 

I  supposed  Miss  D.  to  have  been  married 
long  ago.  There  is  a  notion  current — 
whether  correct  I  know  not — that  mar- 
riage broadens,  softens,  and  sweetens  the 
feminine  mind.  By  the  way,  I  always 
thought  one  of  the  best  of  them,  so  far  as 
natural  aptitude  was  concerned,  was  C. 
She  had  no  beauty,  but  I  once  saw  her  act 
in  some  private  theatricals,  and  I  remember 
I  was  much  struck  with  a  betrayal,  a  revela- 
tion of  emotion. 

Your  dear  letter  reached  me  on  Saturday, 


HIS  LETTERS  159 

about  two  hours  after  I  had  sent  forth  a 
despairing  plaint.  I  do  not  exaggerate 
when  I  say  that  I  have  read  it  thirty  times. 

Letter  Fiftieth. 

Oh,  how  sweet  it  is  to  commune,  dearest, 
with  your  lovely  soul !  Oh,  my  God,  with 
what  profound  and  what  pathetic  affection 
I  adore  you.  You  almost  make  me  die 
sometimes  when  you  imply  or  seem  to — that 
you  think  I  love  you  only  in  one  way. 
Alas,  I  do  love  you  in  that  way  !  Who 
could  help  it  that  once  had  looked  in  your 
lovely  eyes  and  pressed  your  hand?  But 
you  have  no  idea  what  an  elevating  and 
stimulating  influence  you  have  on  me. 
With  you  my  brain  grows  so  prolific  that  it 
could  give  forth  work  as  a  fountain  plays. 
But  near  you  I  could  do  nothing.  I  would 
deem  it  sacrilege  to  waste  one  of  the  pre- 
cious moments  that  might  never  occur  again. 
How  happy  I  have  been  to  see  you  !  Hap- 
pier than  ever  before  in  my  life.  You  see, 
I  never  knew  what  love  was  before ;  but 
you  have  taught  me,  my  adored  one.  It 
really  is  incredible  what  fertility  and  vigor 


160  HIS  LETTERS 

of  mind  you  give  me.  And  nothing  could 
chill  my  heart  but  cold  words  from  you. 
What  else  could  cast  so  much  as  the  faintest 
fleck  of  cloud  over  my  devotion  ?  Oh, 
I  am  desperately  fond  of  you.  I  hunger 
for  the  pressure  of  your  hand.  I  am  mad 
to  kneel  before  you  and  kiss  your  little 
foot.  How  beautiful  you  are  ! 

Adieu,  my  queen,  my  love,  my  idol. 

Letter  Fifty-first. 

Every  day  that  passes  when  I  do  not  see 
you  leaves  me  more  and  more  depressed. 
It  is  only  for  the  first  few  hours  after  we 
part  that  I  can  forget  to  be  unhappy. 
Yesterday  I  sighed  in  vain  for  a  letter,  and 
I  wanted  one  because  it  worried  me  to 
think  that  on  Tuesday  evening  you  would 
get  a  horrid  note  that  I  had  posted.  I 
tried  to  make  you  promise  not  to  read  it, 
but  I  could  not.  You  can  do  anything 
with  me,  but  I,  alas,  cannot  even  persuade 
you  not  to  open  an  envelope.  I  should 
think  I  was  dominated  ! 

How  I  wished  yesterday  that  I  could 
have  been  with  you  in  the  country,  have 


fffS  LETTERS  161 

passed  that  perfect  day  near  you.  Oh,  it 
would  have  been  a  heaven  upon  earth ! 
Would  we  not  have  walked  upon  the  sea- 
shore, dearest,  and  should  I  not  have  felt 
your  hand  upon  my  arm,  and  should  not 
my  eyes  have  fed  on  your  sweet  face  ? 

As  it  was,  I  sat  for  several  hours  by  the 
river. 

In  one  of  your  most  gracious  moments 
you  announced  to  me  lately  an  inclination 
to  think  that  I  was  actually  becoming 
respectable.  Such  flattery  quite  staggered 
me.  But  I  really  wish  you  could  have 
seen  me  at  the  L.'s,  a  miracle  of  deportment 
and  the  very  ideal  of  the  frump.  I  wore  a 
carefully  composed  countenance,  in  which 
were  judiciously  mingled  complacency,  gen- 
eral philanthropy,  special  benignity.  It  is 
a  shame  that  you  do  not  see  me  in  these 
my  creditable  moments. 

In  answer  to  your  question,  I  will  say 
that  the  phrase  of  which  you  speak  occurs, 
I  think,  in  the  dispatch  sent  to  Mazarin  by 
the  Prince  de  Conde,  after  the  battle  of 
Rocroi.  Their  victory  on  that  field  cost 
the  French  dear ;  but  it  was  worth  the  cost, 


162  HIS  LETTERS 

being  the  first  time  that  Frenchmen  had 
beaten  Spaniards  in  nearly  a  hundred  and 
fifty  years,  since  Gonzalo  of  Cordova  armed 
his  men  with  pikes,  and  drew  them  up 
in  those  deep  phalanx-like  masses — the 
famous  tercios. 

There,  I  should  answer  your  questions 
more  punctually.  How  can  I  when  there  is 
only  one  thought  in  my  mind  ?  I  love  you, 
worship  you,  adore  you,  noblest,  dearest, 
most  beautiful  of  women.  Ah,  if  this  were 
midsummer  I  should  persecute  you.  As  it 
is  June,  and  you  are  not  free,  will  you  not 
at  least  be  generous  to  the  most  desper- 
ately enamored  of  men  ? 

Letter  Fifty-second. 

My  heart's  beloved — oh,  you,  the  woman 
without  whom  I  cannot  live  happily  one 
hour,  and  whom  I  would  not  survive  a 
minute — how  could  you  bruise  my  heart  by 
wasting  one  precious  page  on  a  wretched 
trifle  to  which  I  would  never  have  given 
a  second  thought  ?  Never  would  I  have 
mentioned  the  thing  except  that  I  deemed 
it  possible  you  might  some  time  see 


HIS  LETTERS  163 

Mrs.  ;    and   I   desire   to  warn  you   of 

her  mischief-making  propensity.  Did  you 
imagine  her  words  could  have  any  influence 
on  me  ?  Ah,  sweetest  one,  how  could  you 
believe  this  so  soon,  before  the  roses  that 
you  gave  me  had  faded,  before  the  hand- 
kerchief that  I  stole  had  lost  its  fra- 
grance— a  fragrance  that  makes  me  hot  and 
faint  by  turns  with  passion?  How  could 
you  suppose  that  a  man  who  loves  you  as 
you  know  that  I  love  you  could  be  shaken 
by  a  silly  word ;  could  be  shaken  by  any- 
thing, aye  anything  that  you  yourself  might 
tell  me.  There  is  nothing  you  could  do  that 
would  not  be  perfect  in  my  eyes,  and  would 
not  make  me  adore  you  more ;  you  could 
not  disenchant  me.  Ah,  but  you  do  not 
yet  know  the  wondrous  alchemy  of  love ; 
you  have  yet  to  learn  it.  ...  The  last  time 
that  I  wrote  how  could  I  speak  ?  Your 
injunctions  had  tied  my  wings  and  loaded 
me  with  weights.  Even  my  thoughts  were 
paralyzed  and  could  not  fly  to  you.  But 
listen,  if  ever  again  you  accuse  me  of 
indifference,  I  will  dispatch  a  letter  that 
will  scorch  the  mail-bags  and  set  the  train 


164  HIS  LETTERS 

on  fire ;  and  lest  it  should  by  some  chance 
reach  you,  I  warn  you  to  take  out  a  large 
policy  of  fire  insurance  on  your  house. 

My  darling,  let  us  never  speak  or  think 
again  of  such  a  miserable  trifle  as  the  spite- 
ful speeches  of  envious  women.  Here- 
after, should  such  things  enter  my  ear,  I 
would  forthwith  bury  them,  encyst  them  in 
my  brain. 

.  .  .  When  you  write  to  me  again  say 
that  you  care  a  little  for  me.  Say  that  I 
may  see  you  once  again.  Next  week  is  your 
birthday.  May  I  send  you  some  flowers? 
I  worship  you,  you  know  it ! 

Letter  Fifty-third. 

I  have  your  telegram.  My  darling,  of 
course  Mrs.  -  -  said  it.  But  that  proves 
nothing,  does  it  ?  She  will  repeat  it  when 
I  go  up  there,  for  I  shall  go,  with  a  resolve 
to  stamp  out  that  nest  of  your  enemies. 
Ah,  I  shall  be  very  nice  to  them  until  they 
have  said  all  that  they  have  to  say — how  else 
shall  I  know  what  to  answer  ? — but  when 
they  have  ended  I  shall  have  my  innings. 
Do  you  think  that  my  beloved  will  suffer 


HIS  LETTERS  165 

then  ?  You  have  no  occasion  to  feel  indig- 
nant. I  welcome  the  opportunity  of  meet- 
ing the  envious  creatures  who  would  drag 
you  to  their'  level.  Take  in  exchange  for 
your  charming  woman's  vanity  a  dash  of  my 
Satanic  pride,  that  cares  not  an  iota  what 
anyone  but  the  loved  one  thinks.  Why, 
suppose  you  had  said  the  thing,  sweet  ? 
Do  you  know  it  would  have  flattered  me  ? 
It  was  as  if  you  had  put  your  little  foot 
upon  my  neck.  Have  I  not  once  kissed 
your  slender  footprints  in  the  sand  ?  I 
almost  wish  that  you  had  said  it.  Am  I 
not  your  slave  ?  Say  what  you  will  of  me, 
for  you  are  generous  and  noble,  and  I 
know  you  would  not  say  a  word  that  was 
not  just. 

I  am  infinitely  better  and  higher  for  hav- 
ing known  you.  Tell  me  that  you  do  not 
feel  that  knowing  me  has  deteriorated  you. 
Oh,  that  is  a  terrible  thought  you  once 
hinted  at  ;  how  cruel  to  a  man  who  would 
die  for  you  !  You  didn't  mean  it,  did  you  ? 
It  would  kill  me  to*  think  you  meant  it. 
Tell  me  that  you  are  not  sorry  you  ever 
knew  me.  Tell  me  !  the  fault  can  be  rem- 


1 66  HIS  LETTERS 

edied.      Tell    me    quickly.      Don't   miss   a 
mail. 

Letter  Fifty -fourth. . 

Oh,  when  I  break  out  of  Capua,  and 
set  up  my  standard  on  the  hills,  all  the 
discontented  and  the  clever  will  rally 
around  me,  for  they  know  that  I  do  not 
fear.  What  should  I  fear  when  I  think  of 
thee? 

I  shall  not  answer  the  first  letter.  It 
plunged  me  into  sadness.  Oh,  what  irony 
of  fate  that  sent  me,  for  the  first  love  of  my 
life,  the  only  one  that  ever  filled  my  heart, 
into  the  camp  of  enemies !  It  was  a  rape 
of  the  Sabines  that  this  son  of  Romulus 
was  driven  to  attempt  ;  and  yet  I  have 
never  heard  that  those  lovely  Sabine  women 
hated  their  Roman  ravishers  after  the  fell 
work  was  done.  Strange,  strange  beyond 
revelation  are  the  revulsions  of  nature ! 
Oh,  how  I  should  love  you  !  To  doubt  it 
is  to  dishonor  your  inevitable  fascinations. 
When  you  speak  thus*  you  dishonor  me,  I 
almost  hate  you — almost — I  could  not  hate 
you  utterly. 


HIS  LETTERS  167 

Alas  !  a  sight  of  her,  a  word  from  her 
would  recall  me  to  a  sanity. 

Letter  Fifty-fifth. 

I  have  just  returned.  I  am  free  at  last 
to  write  to  you  where  and  when  I  like.  I 
came  home  with  my  heart  full  of  tenderness 
and  passion,  and  I  find  a  dreadful  reaction 
in  a  letter  that  fills  me  with  despair.  I 
cannot  bear  such  letters.  What  do  you 
mean  by  saying  that  I  struck  at  you  ?  I 
struck  at  fate,  which,  it  seems,  has  spoiled 
my  life.  And  you  can  say  that  I  struck  at 
you  !  Oh,  you  are  a  tigress  !  .  .  .  You 
never  had  these  reactions  when  you  were 

in  M before  you  saw  me.      Now  you 

have  them.  The  inference  is  too  obvious. 
You  say  you  have  wondered  what  I  thought 
of  you  that  evening  in  your  boudoir. 
Don't  you  know  what  I  thought  of  you 
then  and  always  ?  But  I  give  up,  I  throw 
up  the  sponge,  I  am  beaten.  What  use  of 
struggling  longer  ?  for  you  see  I  love 
you,  whatever  you  may  think  ;  and  if  my 
loving  you  as  a  man  ought  to  love  a  woman 
makes  you  unhappy,  for  God's  sake  let  me 


1 68  HIS  LETTERS 

love  you  in  another  way  !  I  can  do  it.  At 
least,  I  will  try.  .  .  .  Before  you  went  away 
you  never  wrote  me  these  doubtful,  suspi- 
cious, insulting  letters.  Do  you  wish  never 
to  see  me  again  ?  Say  so  if  you  will  be 
happier.  .  .  .  Why  don't  you  know  that 
only  one  woman  in  a  million  can  feel  love, 
and  only  one  woman  in  ten  millions  can 
evoke  it  ?  You  haven't  the  faintest  concep- 
tion of  what  a  man  would  do  who  feels  as  I 
do.  You  cannot  love,  the  idea  is  ridicu- 
lous. Alas,  alas !  I  hoped  for  happiness 
when  I  got  back,  but  it  was  not  for  me. 
Adieu  dear  / 

Letter  Fifty-sixth. 

Sweetest  one,  it  is  the  curse  of  absence. 
No  one  seems  to  have  noticed  it,  that 
if  you  do  not  correspond,  and  really  love, 
all  is  well.  A  man,  at  all  events,  who 
felt  as  I  feel  for  you,  would  never  change. 
A  woman  might,  because  she  has  more 
vanity.  Ah,  you  are  vain,  dearest,  so  vain, 
and  I  love  you  for  your  vanity.  But-  to  be 
absent  and  yet  correspond,  oh,  that  is  ruin. 
One  receives  a  letter  written  in  one  mood, 


HIS  LETTERS  169 

One  answers  it — it  is  received  in  quite 
another  mood,  as  the  next  letter  shows. 
And  who  suffers?  The  lover.  It  is  always 
his  fault,  no  matter  what  happens.  How 
cruel  is  your  last  letter  !  Why  do  you  say 
such  things  to  me?  Of  course  you  think 
them  or  you  would  not  say  them.  But  if  I 
were  a  woman  I  would  not  bruise  a  man 
who  had  traveled  day  and  night  to  get  her 
letters  a  few  hours  earlier,  by  such  self- 
divulgations  as  this.  But  alas  !  you  know 
your  power.  You  know  that  you  can  say 
anything  to  me,  and  you  abuse  it.  Ah, 
how  funny  it  seems  to  me  to  hear  you  pre- 
tend to  care  for  me.  Of  course  you  do  it 
only  out  of  sympathy  and  compassion.  It 
is  ill  done,  madame,  an  under-study. 

Letter  Fifty -seventh. 

Why  do  you  sometimes  say  to  me — I  ask 
dear,  humbly,  sadly — for  whenever  I  recall 
the  words  they  plunge  me  in  sorrow — why 
do  you  speak  as  if  you  feared,  should  you 
ever  come  to  share  a  little  of  the  feeling 
which  in  such  awful  intensity  I  have  for 
you,  it  would  cause  you  to  look  downward 


170  HIS  LETTERS 

and  not  up  ?  If  that  be  truly  your  appre- 
hension, banish  me  at  once,  and  utterly. 
Tell  me  the  reason  of  the  banishment  and 
I  will  not  utter  one  word  of  protest  or 
appeal.  It  would  kill  me  to  think  that 
knowing  me  had  lowered  you  in  your  own 
esteem ;  but  I  will  submit  in  silence.  I 
love  you — a  sentiment  li^ce  mine  is  a  grand 
orchestra,  and  sweeps  the  whole  gamut  of 
emotion,  from  the  noblest  aspiration  to  the 
fiercest  appetite.  I  love  you  too  tenderly, 
devoutly,  and  unselfishly  to  ask  for  any- 
thing which  it  would  hurt  your  heart  to 
give.  But  how  can  it  be  possible  that  any 
feeling  you  can  conceive  for  me  should 
have  an  effect  opposite  to  that  produced  by 
my  love  for  you  ?  Why,  so  quickening, 
lifting,  and  electrifying  is  your  influence 
upon  my  mind  and  heart  as  well  as  body, 
that  I  positively  dread,  I  feel  ashamed  to 
see  anybody  lest  the  source  of  my  moral 
elevation  and  mental  excitement  should  be 
penetrated.  I  cannot  talk  with  any  intelli- 
gent person  upon  any  interesting  subject 
without  my  face  so  lighting  up,  and  my 
tongue  pouring  forth  such  a  flood  of 


HIS  LETTERS  \1\ 

imagery  that  I  know  they  say,  when  I  am 
gone,  "  What  has  happened  to  Thornton  ? 
Something  strange  must  have  befallen  him, 
for  he  is  thrice  the  man  he  was."  I  know 
they  say  this,  for  I  sometimes  catch  them 
looking  at  me  in  a  surprised,  inquisitive,  sus- 
picious way.  If  your  name  had  been  men- 
tioned, one  might  account  for  this,  but  it 
has  not  been  for  weeks.  The  last  time  it 
was,  I  made  it  clear  that  I  thought  it  ques- 
tionable taste  for  men  who  had  not  the 
pleasure  of  knowing  a  lady  to  talk  of  her; 
so  it  can't  be  that.  It  is  the  profound, 
potent,  all-pervasive,  clarifying,  dignifying 
influence  that  the  thought  of  you  exerts. 
Oh,  why  should  I  exercise  on  you  an  in- 
fluence the  dismal  and  deadly  opposite  ? 
It  is  a  dreadful,  dreadful  thought ;  but  do 
not  for  an  instant  fancy  that  I  presume  to 
chide  you.  You  tell  me  the  truth,  and  it 
is  the  truth  that  is  so  horrible. 

What  could  be  the  thing  I  said  to  you 
that  you  liked  ?  I  will  try  again.  Was  it 
what  I  said  when  I  likened  you  to  Arte- 
mis? No?  Then  was  it  what  I  said  about 
violets  that  were  crushed  on  someone's 


172  HIS  LETTERS 

bosom  ?  But  I  have  said  things  since,  that 
it  would  break  my  heart  to  think  you  did 
not  like  better  than  anything  I  said  before. 
But  who  can  tell  what  a  woman  so  dis- 
tractingly  lovable,  so  mysterious  and  beauti- 
ful, may  be  thinking  or  feeling  at  a  given 
hour  ?  Let  us  rather  stand  breathless, 
trembling,  awaiting  good  or  ill,  the  gods' 
design.  Ah,  when  you  think  of  me,  shiver 
at  the  thought  that  you  possess  over  a 
human  being  the  power  of  life  and  death. 
The  angel  of  destruction  could  not  fell  me 
to  the  earth  more  quickly  and  more  surely, 
with  a  touch  of  his  icy  finger,  than  you 
could  with  a  word. 

Letter  Fifty-eighth. 

Only  a  woman  of  genius,  who  is  also  con- 
scious of  exceeding  loveliness,  could  have 
invented  such  a  birthday  gift  as  I  received 
on  Friday  morning.  A  mere  beauty  would 
not  have  thought  of  it,  because  she  would 
have  had  neither  the  needed  brains  nor 
heart.  And  there  are  many  women  of 
brains  and  talent  who  would  not  have  car- 
ried out  the  thought,  indeed,  being  but  too 


HIS  LETTERS  173 

sadly  aware  of  the  fact  that  there  was  noth- 
ing in  a  glimpse  of  their  faces  and  their 
figures  to  make  to  a  lover  all  the  difference 
between  heaven  and  earth.  But  you  knew 
that  if  I  were  sitting  at  the  furthest  end  of 
an  opera  house,  where  I  could  descry  but 
faintly  your  face  far  distant,  the  sight  of  it 
would  cast  me  into  a  delicious  trance.  And 
your  voice — the  sound  of  it  would,  if  I  were 
blind,  make  me  as  amorous  as  poor  Milton 
was  when  his  hot  imagination  had  to  play 
the  part  of  eyes.  But  my  birthday  gift 
meant  more  to  me  than  the  sight  of  a  coun- 
tenance of  matchless  loveliness,  and  the 
sound  of  a  voice  that  makes  a  plaything  of 
my  heart.  Do  you  know  how  proud  of  you 
I  am  when  you  do  a  fine,  original,  bold 
thing  like  that  ?  Ah  yes,  you  are  as  much 
astray  in  this  century  as  I  am.  But  no,  we 
are  not  astray  since  we  have  found  each 
other. 

Letter  Fifty-ninth. 

SUNDAY. 

What  a  fool  I  was  ever  to  imagine  that  I 
knew  what  love  was  before  !     I  never  got  a 


174  HIS  LETTERS 

glimpse   of  him,  never  even  guessed   how 
terrible,  yet  how  delicious  he  could  be. 

Oh,  I  wish  I  had  not  asked  you  that 
question  yesterday.  It  broke  from  me  in 
my  torment.  You  say,  "  I  know  not  jeal- 
ousy." My  God  !  no  woman  could  know  it 
as  I  know  it.  Her  frame  would  be  too 
weak  to  bear  it.  But  I  do  not  speak  of  it — 
not  often — I  am  too  proud  to  let  you  see. 
But  that  question  was  blasphemy.  After  I 
had  sent  the  letter,  I  hung  over  your  picture 
for  an  hour.  That  mouth  and  chin,  oh, 
who  could  read  them  as  I  do,  and  not 
loathe  himself  for  the  thought  that  prompted 
such  an  insult  ?  Why  they  are  the  very 
home — the  altar — of  modesty,  of  purity,  of 
chastity  inviolate — alas — inviolable.  Ah, 
there  speaks  that  which  may  well  drive  a 
lover  to  despair,  there  speaks  Artemis  ;  oh, 
Heaven,  I  divined  her  !  All  the  rest  is 
Venus,  but  that,  Artemis.  That  was  what 
the  old  Frenchman  saw  :  his  dazzled  eyes 
were  not  at  fault.  Oh,  I  told  you  that  you 
were  fashioned  to  drive  men  crazy,  while 
you  yourself  are  sane  and  cold.  You  will 
never  love,  never,  not  as  women  were  in- 


tilS  LETTERS  175 

tended  to  love  men.  There  will  always 
arise  in  you  the  stern,  implacable  protest  of 
the  priestess  who  defends  her  temple's  sanc- 
tity. But  what  a  dreadful  fate  is  mine,  to 
love  for  the  first  time,  and  such  a  woman  !  of 
the  mystic  dual  nature  that  dooms  a  man  to 
pine  unsatisfied. 

Later. — You  like  me  to  tell  you  every- 
thing, don't  you,  dearest  ?  I  am  ravished 
when  you  speak  with  absolute  liberty  to  me. 
May  I  tell  you,  then,  that  with  all  your  pre- 
tensions to  be  a  woman  of  the  world,  in 
certain  things,  you  seem  to  me  the  simplest 
and  most  artless  child.  I  so  want  you  to  un- 
derstand me  ;  sometimes  you  say  you  do  not. 
But  you  will,  you  will  if  you  let  me  speak 
to  you  with  complete  freedom.  By  and  by, 
you  will  have  faith  in  me,  will  trust  me, 
will  believe  every  word  I  say.  Ah,  it  is  a 
beautiful  thing  for  two  human  beings  to 
wholly  believe  in  one  another.  That  is  one 
of  Heaven's  bridals, 

There  are  things  that  as  my  eyes  rove 
over  that  dim  transcript  of  your  loveliness,  I 
would  fain  say  to  you  but  dare  not.  The 
brows,  the  eyelids,  the  eyelashes,  the  tell-tale 


1?  HIS  LETTERS 

nuqiie,  that  column  of  ivory,  your  throat,  the 
splendid  proportions  and  diviner  promise 
of  the  arm.  And  oh,  God  !  the  budding  of  a 
bosom  which  a  deity  would  renounce  heaven 
to  touch  ;  but  I  dare  not,  I  dare  not.  The 
purity  of  that  mouth  and  chin  appall.  Stay 
ever  in  the  clouds,  sweet  Artemis.  De- 
scend to  earth  not  for  one  hour !  What 
would  befall  him  who  knew  you  once  only 
to  lose  you  ? 

Letter  Sixtieth. 

Do  you  think  there  is  any  fun  at  all  in 
such  a  sentiment  as  possesses  me,  when  she 
that  inspires  it  and  controls  it  with  a  breath 
is  absent  ?  I  am  wretched,  miserable ;  I 
suffer  the  tortures  of  the  damned. 

I  cannot  answer  questions.  I  cannot 
write  on  commonplace  subjects.  What  is 
to  be  done  for  such  a  hopeless  case  of  mal 
d' amour  as  this  ? 

I  have  at  this  moment  received  your 
letter.  The  first  part  of  it  was  freezing  ; 
you  were  annoyed  with  me.  But  the  last 
part  of  your  note,  just  a  few  lines  of  it, 
was  heavenly.  Ah,  my  loved  one,  say  it 


HIS  LETTERS  177 

again  ;  let  me  have  that  music  ever  in  my 
ears !  As  a  rule  you  are  infinitely  more 
reserved  than  I,  when  we  are  together.  I 
know  not  what  has  come  over  me,  for  to 
you  I  think  and  feel  aloud.  I  don't  under- 
stand it ;  I  never  felt  before  this  wild 
desire  to  tell  everything.  I  have  a  wish 
that  there  were  a  window  in  my  heart  for 
you.  There  is  absolutely  nothing  that  I 
would  conceal  from  you.  What  bliss  it  is 
to  me  to  feel  such  perfect  love  and  trust  as 
that !  I  don't  mean  of  course,  dearest,  that 
I  am  not  jealous  of  you.  God  forbid.  I  am 
mad  with  jealousy  ;  but  I  am  too  wise  to 
borrow  trouble.  I  don't  need  to  borrow. 
You  say  things  that  throw  me  into  a  fever 
of  fear  and  foreboding.  Oh,  don't  make 
me  jealous  ;  spare  me  that.  I  know  my- 
self ;  I  shall  be  wicked,  cruel.  I  am  capable 
of  hurting  the  being  that  I  would  die  for. 
No,  no,  I  am  not ;  that  sounds  like  a 
threat ;  and  do  what  you  like,  alas,  I  have 
no  rights,  not  even  the  rights  of  a  lover,  no, 
not  even  his. 

Dearest,    she    that    wrote     the    "  Hep- 
tameron  "  was  a  charming  woman,  and  like 


178  ms  LETTERS 

most  women  of  her  time,  had  probably 
discovered  what  love  meant.  From  my 
soul  I  pity  the  man  or  woman  who  dies 
without  such  learning ;  yet  ninety-nine 
thousand,  nine  hundred  and  ninety-nine  in 
a  hundred  thousand  do.  They  know  not 
love.  I  see  it  but  too  well.  Thank  God 
that  you  have  taught  me ;  for  with  that  clew 
the  whole  tangled  skein  of  human  life  is 
easily  unraveled.  But  about  Marguerite ; 
she  was  the  niece  of  the  author  of  the 
"  Heptameron,"  she  was  the  sister-in-law  of 
Mary  Stuart,  the  sister  of  Charles  the  IX., 
and  Henry  the  III.,  and  the  first  wife  of 
Henry  the  IV.  She  was  not  only  the 
loveliest,  but  the  cleverest,  the  sweetest,  and 
the  gentlest  woman  of  that  delicious  time. 
Of  course,  being  born  in  that  epoch,  she 
could  not  lead  the  life  of  a  nun,  could  she? 
Did  she  not  fall  in  love  ?  It  was  she  who 
when  her  first  love,  la  Mole,  was  done  to 
death,  for  her  sake,  caused  his  heart  to  be 
cut  out  of  his  body,  and  treasured  it.  Do 
you  think  that  horrible  ?  I  think  it  most 
beautiful.  It  was  she  who,  for  la  raison  d'e- 
tat, was  married  against  her  will  to  that 


bandy-legged,  red-haired  little  rascal  whom 
fools  glorify  as  Henry  of  Navarre.  She 
would  never  let  him  come  near  her,  except 
in  public,  and  turned  him  loose  to  browze 
in  meaner  pastures.  But  in  the  Saint 
Bartholomew — ah,  she  had  a  heart  like 
yours,  the  sweetest  and  the  kindest — she 
saved  the  husband  that  she  loved  not,  how 
think  you  ?  By  putting  him  where  the 
spadassins  of  her  brother  and  her  lover,  the 
Due  de  Guise,  would  never  look  for  him — 
under  her  bed.  And  yet  the  wretched 
Gascon  lad,  when  he  came  to  the  throne, 
forgot  that  he  owed  his  life  to  this  sweet 
lady,  and  humbled  her  and  repudiated  her, 
because  his  vanity  was  galled  at  her  refusal 
to  have  him  as  a  lover.  The  charges 
against  her  are  nothing.  She  was  the  best 
woman  of  her  time.  Perfect  ?  Had  she 
been  perfect  she  had  been  less  lovable. 

What  right  have  you  to  be  such  an 
enchanting,  splendid  creature,  scattering 
destruction  on  every  hand  ?  Do  you  want 
to  be  the  scourge  of  the  human  race,  or  one 
man's  happiness  ?  Have  you  made  up 
your  mind  ?  Tell  me,  say  it.  Oh,  your 


180  HIS  LETTERS 

words  go  through  me  as  if  I  had  clutched 
an  electric  wire.  But  you  will  never  love 
me  a  thousandth  part  as  madly  as  I  love 
you.  You  could  never  convince  me  of  that 
by  words.  Ah,  noble,  tender  woman,  don't 
you  know  that  I  love  you  as  no  other 
woman  of  this  hour  is  loved,  upon  this 
earth  ?  Don't  you  know  it,  believe  it,  feel 
it,  in  every  fiber  of  your  loveliness  ?  How 
can  you  then  keep  me  away  so  long  ? 

Letter  Sixty-first. 

I  was  delighted  to  hear  about  G.'s  appre- 
ciation of  your  talent.  I  would  rather 
have  his  commendation  than  a  unani- 
mous verdict  from  all  the  rest.  I  thank 
you,  dear,  for  telling  me  at  once  these  things 
that  make,  and  ought  to  make  you  happy. 

How  beautiful  you  are.  Do  you  know 
that  every  line  of  your  face,  and  every  tint 
and  every  curve  of  your  body  are  so  im- 
pressed upon  my  retina  that  I  can  see  you 
at  this  moment,  with  wonderful  distinctness. 
If  you  had  no  figure  at  all  your  face  would 
make  you  a  sorceress,  and  if  your  face  were 
always  masked,  your  figure  would  drive  men 


LETTERS  181 

crazy.  But  you  are  absolutely  free  from 
the  desires  which  you  arouse  in  others — the 
serene  and  placid  condition  of  the  immortal 
gods.  Yes,  Aurora,  I  do  not  believe  that 
you  care  much  about  Tithonus.  You  are 
just  amusing  yourself  with  him,  because  you 
find  him,  in  some  particulars,  a  highly  sen- 
sitive and  nervous  subject.  You  like  to 
make  emotional  experiments.  If  the  vic- 
tims don't  fully  appreciate  the  aesthetic  pur- 
poses to  which  they  are  put,  tant  pis  pour 
eux.  For  my  own  part,  I  am  well  content 
to  serve  as  the  provoker  of  the  hard  thinking 
which  goes  on  in  that  little  head.  As  for 
mastering  the  heart  that  should  go  with 
such  a  pretty  head,  I  have  ceased  even  to 
aspire  to  that.  If  that  admirable  mansion 
has  a  tenant  for  life,  it  is  not  me.  You 
have  not  even  deigned  to  say  that  you  have 
not  changed  your  mind  about  Monday,  or 
to  name  the  hour  when  one  may  call  and  see 
you.  I  shall  expect  to  receive  a  telegram 
putting  me  off.  Ah  well,  that  sort  of  thing 
may  be  fun  to  you,  but  it  is  death  to  me. 

Alas,  I  wish  I  could  believe  that  if  I  died 
to-morrow,  you  would  remember  me  a  single 


1 82  ff IS  LETTERS 

day,  that  you  felt  a  millionth  part  of  the 
love,  passion,  worship,  adoration,  madness 
that  I  feel  for  you. 

Letter  Sixty-second. 

\  have  seen  you  now  in  four  ways,  and  a 
large  part  of  my  time  is  spent  in  trying  to 
make  up  my  mind  how  I  like  you  best.  Of 
course,  in  your  rich  evening  gowns,  when 
you  reveal  most,  you  are  most  deadly.  But 
the  problem  is  too  complex  to  be  solved  on 
that  simple  principle.  It  is  not  to  be  denied, 
at  all  events,  that  in  that  simple  girlish  cos- 
tume, in  your  atelier,  you  were  bewitching. 
And  yet  I  felt  afraid  of  you.  How  often  have 
I  dreamed  of  carrying  you  off,  and  secreting 
you  from  the  eyes  of  men,  away  upon  that 
enchanted  shore  of  which  I  have  spoken  to 
you.  But  I  know  now  you  would  not  long 
be  happy  thus.  You  are  a  woman,  thank 
Heaven,  although  a  princess;  and  therefore 
you  have  some  of  a  woman's  captivating 
weaknesses.  It  is  your  sex  that  makes  you 
different  from  me  in  one  particular — that  you 
care  what  people  say  about  you.  You  think 
you  don't,  and  yet  you  do ;  you  can't  help  it. 


HIS  LETTERS  183 

You  don't  care  much  while  what  they  say 
isn't  true,  but  the  moment  that  you  felt  it  to 
be  true  you  would  care.  Ah,  how  well  I 
know  you  !  Of  course  I  do  ;  it  is  like  know- 
ing myself — with  nothing  but  the  sex 
changed.  And  so,  dear,  since,  although  you 
do  not  more  than  half  believe  it,  it  is  your 
welfare  and  your  happiness  that  I  care  for 
more  than  the  slaking  of  my  own  mad  pas- 
sion, we  will,  if  you  like,  exchange  in  our 
imaginings  the  island  for  the  altar.  This  is 
a  tremendous  sacrifice  for  me  to  make  ;  for 
I  foresee  that,  could  I  marry  you,  to  a  man 
of  my  disposition,  life  in  the  world  with  you 
would  be  a  hell  on  earth.  So  long  as  I  do 
not  see  things  I  can,  with  an  effort,  put 
certain  thoughts  away ;  but  if  I  were  to 
see  a  man  look  at  you  in  a  certain  way, 
I  could  not  keep  my  hands  from  his 
throat. 

Oh,  I  am  quite  impracticable,  I  recognize 
it  now.  I  understand  why  the  Greeks  speak 
of  jealousy  as  green.  Green  ?  yes,  I  should 
turn  green.  It  is  a  silly  thing  to  say,  but 
you  were  right  in  guessing  that  I  have  not 
before  known  what  jealousy  is ;  but  Heavens, 


1 84  HIS  LETTERS 

I  know  now !  And  when  I  think  of  the 
agonies  it  would  inflict  upon  me,  I  say,  "  Oh, 
never  mind  what  people  say  ;  let  us  take  the 
island  and  a  steam-yacht ! "  But  alas,  alas, 
you  could  never  be  contented  alone  with  me. 
And  yet  I  think  you  care  for  me  a  little. 
Ah,  have  I  not  read  it  in  your  eyes,  and 
quivering  lips,  at  last?  And  that  last  letter" 
of  yours,  is  it  not  the  letter  of  a  woman  who 
loves,  loves  in.  all  the  delicious  and  enchant- 
ing ways  which  the  soul  and  body  can  invent  ? 
I  have  drunk  of  that  letter  and  it  has  given 
me  joy. 

Letter  Sixty-third. 

What  a  roguish  and  provoking  crea- 
ture you  are !  You  see  I  am  still  in  the 
sighing  stage,  sighing  like  a  furnace,  and 
wondering  what  a  certain  lovely  woman  can 
be  made  of  to  say  such  pretty  things  and 
do  so  little.  Oh,  Solomon  was  right ;  there 
are  three  things  that  I  cannot  understand, 
yea,  four  that  are  unintelligible  unto  me. 
But  really  the  way  of  a  cony  among  the 
rocks  was  straight  and  obvious  compared 
with  the  way  that  this  fair  lady  has  of  play- 


HIS  LETTERS  185 

ing  with  one  whom  she  teases  by  pretending 
to  call  her  lover  when  she  knows  that  he  is 
not.  But  if  I  cannot  have  anything  else, 
tease  me  more.  Give  me  another  letter 
quickly,  give  me  a  "volume."  I  am  much 
amused  at  what  you  tell  me  about  T. 
Fancy  a  man's  head  being  turned  so  easily ! 
How  convenient  such  men  must  be.  If  I 
were  a  pretty  woman,  fond  of  studying  the 
male  of  my  species,  but  not  overburdened 
with  passions  myself,  that  is  just  the  sort  of 
man  I  would  have  about  me.  I  wouldn't  be 
bothered  with  people  that  are  always  clam- 
oring for  more.  I  wish  I  were  a  pretty 
woman.  No,  I  don't.  I  fear  that  with  my 
temperament  I  should  surrender  at  the  first 
fire,  and  that  would  never  do,  would  it  ? 
Come,  imagine  that  I  am  a  woman,  and 
give  me  sage  advice.  About  how  long  do 
you  think  that  I  ought  to  hold  out  pour 
r honneur  du  drapeaii?  A  whole  day,  a 
week  ?  Oh,  that  is  impossible !  You  see,  we 
have  not  all  of  us  your  regal  self-control. 
We  have  got  more  of  the  slave's  instinct, 
that  when  it  sees  its  master  drops.  You 
must  adapt  your  counsel  to  our  weakness. 


1 86  HIS  LETTERS 

We  cannot  all  play  with  fire  entirely  un- 
singed,  as  you  do. 

Ah,  would  that  I  might  kill  you  with  my 
love  ! 

HUBERT. 

V 

Letter  Sixty-fourth. 

If  I  were  a  woman  I  should  shudder  at 
possessing  such  power  over  a  human  being 
that  one  glimpse  of  my  face  would  make 
the  difference  between  hell  and  heaven. 

I  have  ceased  to  expect  or  believe  in  any- 
thing. For  a  whole  week  I  had  been  look, 
ing  forward  to  seeing  you.  You  knew  that 
I  was  unhappy,  and  that  the  only  ray  of 
light  upon  my  life  was  shed  by  you.  Yet, 
without  the  faintest  provocation,  you  robbed 
me  of  those  days ;  and,^to  make  my  outlook 
for  the  future  entirely  hopeless,  informed 
me  that  every  living  woman  would  have 
done  the  same.  I  take  leave  to  doubt  that 
assertion,  but  of  course  your  making  it 
means  that  at  any  moment  you  may  repeat 
the  torture  to  which  you  have  subjected  me. 
Oh,  I  was  glad  to  go  away  and  stay  with  my 
dogs,  who  at  all  events  do  not  breathe  hot 


HIS  LETTERS  187 

and  cold  a  dozen  times  a  day.  My  heart 
was  like  a  lump  of  lead,  when  I  went  tfl 
my  place.  It  is  certain  that  only  a  man 
free  from  other  causes  of  unhappiness,  and 
an  idle  man  at  that,  with  nothing  to  do  but 
fret  and  dream,  has  any  business  to  fall  in 
love  with  a  woman  of  your  type — no,  not 
your  type — there  is  no  such  type,  you  are 
unique.  I  wish  I  had  the  strength  to  break 
my  bonds.  I  cannot  bear  such  heartless 
treatment.  As  I  told  you  at  the  time,  you 
were  thinking  only  of  your  own  self,  and 
not  in  the  least  of  the  pain  you  were  inflict- 
ing on  another.  What  is  that  but  the  quin- 
tessence of  selfishness  ?  You  have  cared  a 
little  for  my  letters,  but  for  me  you  have 
not  cared.  I  exert  over  you  no  personal 
attraction.  Do  you  prefer  that  I  should 
write  to  you  and  never  see  you  ?  Why 
don't  you  say  so  ? 

I  don't  believe  that  you  are  coming  to 
town.  I  shall  believe  it  only  when  I  see 
you.  You  will  have  had  time  to  change 
your  mind  a  dozen  times,  and  send  me 
twelve  contradictory  messages.  I  have  lost 
all  faith  in  any  of  your  promises.  I  trust 


1 88  HIS  LETTERS 

this  letter  will  please  you.  It  is  made  to 
your  own  order,  and  carefully  adapted  to 
the  meridian  where  you  dwell. 

Letter  Sixty-fifth. 

Thank  you,  dear  angel,  for  forgiving  the 
brutal  words  that  you  found  awaiting  you 
on  Tuesday  evening.  I  must  have  been 
mad  to  call  you  selfish.  It  is  I  that  am  a 
monster  of  selfishness  toward  you.  It  is 
strange  and  dreadful  that  it  should  be  so, 
for  I  don't  think  that  I  am  particularly  sel- 
fish where  others  are  concerned.  It  is  only 
toward  my  adorable  beloved  that  I  am  so 
brutally  and  fiercely  and  unmercilessly  sel- 
fish. At  this  moment  I  am  almost  weeping 
from  contrition  and  yet  I  know  that  to- 
morrow, if  my  eyes  pounced  upon  your  face, 
or  an  hour  hence,  if  my  imagination  should 
picture  your  beauty  too  vividly,  I  should  be 
just  as  bad  as  ever.  What  will  you  do  with 
me,  tell  me  what  ? 

What  a  child  you  are  !  Why  don't  I  in- 
vite you  to  my  place  ?  Because  you  are 
always,  there  uninvited,  you  live  there. 
Whose  face  but  yours  is  it,  do  you  suppose, 


HIS  LETTERS        .  189 

that  is  always  wooing  my  eyes  to  wander 
from  those  that  speak  to  me,  and  fasten 
themselves,  in  a  kind  of  ecstasy,  on  what 
the  blind  people  round  me  believe  to  be  the 
viewless  air  ?  Whose  voice  but  yours  en- 
chants my  ear,  and  deafens  it  to  all  meaner 
music  ?  I  don't  wonder  that  some  people 
say  that  I  am  losing  my  mind,  because  I  no 
longer  seem  to  have  the  faculty  of  atten- 
tion. Others,  much  more  penetrating,  say, 
"He  behaves  as  if  he  were  infatuated  with 
someone."  Ah,  they  must  indeed  be  ob- 
tuse who  cannot  penetrate  my  secret ! 

Letter  Sixty-sixth. 

When  I  began  that  letter  which  I  wrote 
yesterday,  my  heart  was  full  of  the  most  ar- 
dent love  ;  but  it  overflows  now  with  bitter- 
ness when  I  think  what  the  loss  of  those 
two  days  has  meant  to  me.  Why,  they  are 
gone ;  no  one  can  give  them  back  to  me, 
not  even  you.  Life  is  just  so  much  the 
smaller  and  poorer  for  that  loss.  Oh,  it  was 
a  cruel  blow  to  deal  a  man  that  loved  you, 
and  for  what  cause,  think  of  it !  Oh,  let 
me  assure  you,  madame,  it  is  really  incon- 


19°  HIS  LETTERS 

venient  to  have  a  too  ardent  lover.  I  have 
often  read  that  the  over-ardent  make  fear- 
ful mistakes  and  lose  the  good-will  of  the 
adored  one,  where  cool-headed  ones  might 
win.  But  what  good  does  another's  wisdom 
do  us  ?  How  can  one  be  wise  when  one 
is  burnt  up  with  love,  desire,  and  passion  ? 
And  so — and  so  there  have  been  moments 
—I  shiver  to  think  of  it — when  I  positively 
hated  you.  I  hated  you  as  a  child  hates 
the  hand  that  hurts  him.  I  could  find  no 
excuse  for  you,  as  I  was  whirled  by  a  tem- 
pest of  indignation  and  regret. 

You  know  that  it  is  only  out  of  your 
sight  that  I  grow  frantic.  At  the  sight  of 
you  I  am  a  lamb.  Ah  yes,  you  know  it. 
What  am  I  to  do  ?  Don't  you  see  that  it 
is  agony  to  love  a  woman  as  I  love  you. 
Do  you  like  to  see  me  writhe  in  agony  ? 
How  can  a  woman  like  it  ?  You  say  I  am 
all  at  sea  in  such  things.  Thank  God,  I 
am ;  I  would  rather  be  at  sea  than  on  land 
so  pitiless  and  rockbound  that  a  lover's 
sore  and  desperate  rebellion  provoked  only 
a  superior  smile. 


ffSS  LETTERS  19! 

Letter  Sixty-seven. 

I  have  had  three,  three  happy  days  :  I 
adore  you  for  giving  them  to  me.  I  never 
knew  happiness  before.  To  be  near  you 
wakes  a  maddening  fever  in  my  veins.  I 
forget  where  I  am  ;  I  lose  my  own  iden- 
tity. 

What  delicious  ideas  and  inventions  you 
have  !  What  a  glorified  Eden  of  love  is 
the  imagination  !  Think  of  your  buying 
that  pretty  little  cup  and  saucer,  and  bring- 
ing it  to  me,  by  way  of  our  beginning  house- 
keeping on  our  little  island  !  I  had  no  idea 
that  I  should  become  so  wildly  fond  of  tea ; 
but  a  first  sip  is  not  enough  from  that  pretty 
little  pink  cup.  I  hope  that  it  will  be  more 
than  a  sip  the  next,  time.  I  want  a  deep, 
scorching,  intoxicating  draught. 

Yes,  your  ways  are  enchanting.  They 
make  me  recall  the  sentence  with  which 
Brantome  used  so  often  to  introduce  anec- 
dotes :  Void  une  autre  gentille  et  piquante 
fafon  a' amour. 

When  shall  I  see  you  ?  You  seem  very 
far  away  to-day,  and  it  is  only  in  my  dreams 


192  HIS  LETTERS 

that  I  can  look  into  your  sweet  and  bashful 
eyes. 

Do  you  know  that  you  are  one  of  the 
proudest  women  in  the  world  ?  Ah  yes, 
she  that  I  love  is  a  delicious  combination  of 
pride  and  tenderness.  How  blessed  be- 
yond expression  would  be  the  man  whom 
such  a  one  could  condescend  to  love  ! 

I  have  always  said  that  for  genuine  pas- 
sion, the  sort  of  ardor  a  man  feels  himself, 
one  must  either  look  among  the  people,  the 
very  humble  people,  from  whom  actresses 
are  recruited,  or  to  a  great  lady.  The  pas- 
sions are  feeble,  if  not  entirely  extinct, 
among  the  bourgeoisie,  or  even  among  what 
one  would  have  to  admit  were  ladies,  but 
not  great  ladies.  They  are  such  slaves  of 
convention  that  their  passions,  if  they  were 
born  with  any,  are  starved  to  death.  But  a 
great  lady  can  be  above  conventions. 

Oh,  that  I  might  be  in  the  country  with 
you  to-day  !  to  wander  with  you  in  the 
woods,  or  on  the  sands,  where  I  could  turn 
my  head  over  my  shoulder  and  mark  your 
foot-prints,  and  stooping  kiss  them.  But 
you  will  never  love  me  as  I  love  you,  never. 


HIS  LETTERS  193 

As  to  the  degree  of  your  sentiment  for 
me,  I  am  rent  with  doubt  and  anxiety. 
I  shall  give  you  back  the  ribbon.  You 
must  wear  it  for  me  a  little  while,  for  it  has 
lost  a  little  of  its  maddening  perfume. 
Good-night !  f 

Letter  Sixty-eighth. 

...  I  must  write  to  you  again  to-night. 
Oh,  you  lovely  creature,  I  have  seen  your 
picture  ;  I  cannot  tell  you  what  I  think  of  it. 
I  will  not  until  you  answer  this  one  ques- 
tion. Ah,  answer  it,  my  queen,  my  em- 
press. Tell  me  exactly  when  you  began  to 
paint  it,  and  when  you  ended  it.  Ah,  tell 
me  that  ;  it  will  mean  much  to  me,  and  tell 
me  the  truth,  as  I  tell  you.  Oh,  yes,  you  and 
I  alone,  of  all  mortals,  always  tell  the  truth 
to  one  another.  Ah,  how  great,  how  great 
you  seem  to  me  !  It  is  simply  not  possible 
that  you  should  care  for  me.  Oh,  you  are 
the  heaven-sent  genius!  You  cannot,  can- 
not care  for  me.  My  God  !  My  God  !  how 
I  do  worship  you  !  All  my  life  I  have  been 
dreaming  of  a  woman  to  whom  I  could  talk 
in  shorthand.  Men  used  to  tell  me  that  if  a 


194  HIS  LETTERS 

woman  were  as  well  educated,  as  accom- 
plished, as  talented  as  I  desired,  there 
would  be  something  wanting  in  her  heart  or 
her  body.  I  laughed  them  to  scorn.  "  You 
think  that  brains  would  make  a  woman  less 
desirable  ?  You  have  read  history  in  vain. 
I  have  not,  no,  I  have  not.  There  have 
been  such  women,  and  it  must  be  that  one 
exists — shall  I  find  her?" 

And  now  you  are  ill.  You  are  over- 
worked. You  cannot  eat.  When  you  re- 
ceive this  letter,  get  up  at  once  !  I  order 
you  to  do  so.  Do  you  hear  me  ?  He  that 
you  thought  a  slave  has  suddenly  become  a 
sovereign.  Get  up,  do  you  hear  me  ?  and 
eat  a  beef-steak.  I  will  kill  myself  if  you 
cannot  receive  me  before  I  leave. 

Oh,  my  love,  my  love,  my  love,  send  me  a 
line  to-night ! 

Letter  Sixty-ninth. 

Do  you  know,  madame,  that  you  have 
had  the  honor  of  making  me  cry?  I  don't 
mean  crying  for  you,  that  wouldn't  be  so 
strange  would  it  ?  But  crying  over  the 
child  of  your  hands,  over  that  little  tragedy 


HIS  LETTERS  195 

in  your  painting.  Ah,  you  don't  know 
what  a  triumph  was  that,  and  what  a  con- 
summate proof  of  power.  If  you  could  so 
sway  me,  how  will  you  sway  others  ?  Less 
—  what  shall  I  say  —  less  on  their  guard, 
less  tough,  less  rock-like  ?  Yes,  there  is  more 
genius  in  this  little  thing  than  in  any  of  its 
predecessors.  How  could  you  write  to  me 
then,  as  you  did,  that  you  were  discouraged  ? 
That  you  "  could  not  paint "  ?  Well,  I  gave 
you  a  good  scolding  then  for  your  self-depre- 
ciation, and  if  you  ever  dare  to  say  that  to 
me  again,  I  will — let  me  see — I  will  whip  you 
with  little  rods  made  of  young  sugar  canes ! 

Oh,  but  I  am  proud  of  you  !  How  heav- 
enly sweet  you  are  to  say  that  I  may  give 
you  a  little  present.  Tell  me  what  was  in 
your  mind.  Can  it  possibly  be  the  same 
thing  that  I  have  thought  of,  and  wondered 
whether  you  would  be  pleased  or  annoyed 
that  I  should  send  you  ? 

You  can  judge  how  easy  it  is  for  me  to 
go  away  from  you,  when  I  tell  you  that 
last  week  there  was  a  desperate  effort  made 
to  take  me  away  for  three  weeks.  Every- 
thing was  to  be  done  ;  I  should  have  noth- 


196  rns  LETTERS 

ing  to  do,  and  a  prospect  of  lots  of  money. 
Do  you  know,  I  actually  had  to  pretend  to 
accept,  but  I  speedily  invented  an  iron-clad 
excuse,  and  telegraphed  it. 

Had  I  painted  this  picture  that  you  have 
done,  I  would  have  dozens  of  copies  strewn 
all  over  my  rooms.  How  dreadful  that 
you  are  ill. 

Now  if  you  don't  obey  me  and  rise  from 
your  couch,  and  eat  something  immediately 
and  stand  firm  on  those  pretty  legs,  what 
shall  I  do  to  you  ?  Alas,  I  forget  La  reine 
d?  Espagne  ria  pas  de  jambes. 

Letter  Seventieth, 

In  the  name  of  God,  do  not  protract  this 
fearful  agony  a  moment.  Say  something 
to  me — put  me  out  of  this  terrible  pain.  If 
you  mean  never  to  see  me  or  write  to  me 
again,  oh,  say  so.  Let  me  know  the  worst 
quickly,  quickly.  It  is  fiendish  to  leave  me 
for  four  days  in  suspense. 

I  was  mad  on  Wednesday  ;  I  know  not  a 
word  I  said.  Whatever  I  said  I  abjure  it 
with  my  head  in  the  dust.  But  as  there  is 
nothing,  nothing  but  love  and  adoration  for 


HIS  LETTERS  197 

you  in  my  heart,  I  could  have  said  little 
that  should  wound  you  very  deeply.  It  is 
the  very  test  of  love  that  even  in  his  rage 
he  does  not. 

In  the  fiercest  heat  of  my  disappointment 
and  my  anger  you  must  have  seen  that  you 
possessed  my  heart,  that  its  every  beat  and 
throb  are  yours.  I  admit  that  I  was  wholly 
wrong,  that  I  had  no  cause  for  wrath,  that 
everything  you  did  was  right,  that  there  is 
nothing  you  could  do  which  could  justify 
such  an  outburst.  Alas !  I  admit  every- 
thing, for  what  am  I  but  a  poor  miserable 
slave.  One  does  not  trample  as  you  do  on 
a*  slave.  One  is  more  merciful  when  one  is 
all-powerful.  But  I  want  your  sympathy 
and  your  forgiveness,  not  your  pity.  I  will 
not  have  your  pity,  there  is  no  room  for  it 
in  the  same  heart  with  love.  Akin  to  love 
she  may  be,  but  she  is  love's  poor  relative, 
allowed  to  frequent  the  ante-room,  but  not 
the  presence  'chamber,  where  the  princess 
is  enthroned.  No,  I'll  have  none  of  her. 
But  forgive  me,  forgive  me,  once  more  for- 
give ;  and  for  God's  sake  send  me  a  word 
at  once,  one  word. 


198  ffIS  LETTERS 

Letter  Seventy-first. 

My  heart  is  too  much  wrung  to  command 
service  of  my  voice.  I  cannot  speak,  I  can 
only  throw  myself  upon  your  mercy,  and 
I  can  only  weep  in  an  agony  of  contrition 
and  self-contempt. 

Listen,  dearest — ah,  let  me  call  you  dearest 
just  this  once — I  must  tell  you  something 
now  that  may  seem  to  criminate  my  con- 
duct, to  make  it  worse.  I  do  not  want  to 
have  to  tell  you  this  when  I  am  allowed  to 
see  you.  As  it  turned  out,  there  was 
no  cause  for  the  cyclone  of  fury  and  an- 
ger which  burst  upon  me  when  I  saw,  as  I 
thought,  all  my  hopes  shattered  in  an  hour. 
I  can  no  longer  claim  the  honor  of  unsel- 

o 

fishness.  It  was  of  myself  that  I  was  think- 
ing when  I  poured  out  upon  you  those 
angry  and  cruel  words.  But  no,  I  cannot 
write  it.  I  will  tell  you,  if  you  deign  to  see 
me,  how  I  discovered  that  on  that  terrible 
Wednesday,  the  stars,  after  all,  had  been 
fighting  in  their  courses  for  me.  Nothing 
was  as  I  supposed.  Don't  say  that  this 
makes  me  still  more  unpardonable.  How 


HIS  LETTERS  199 

could  anyone  foresee  such  an  interposition 
of  destiny  on  my  behalf?  Until  I  met  you, 
fate  was  always  against  me.  How  could  I 
realize  that  you  had  changed  the  dice  ? 

You  have  not  received  the  cry  of  despair 
that  I  sent  to  you  yesterday  afternoon, 
when  I  found  from  your  silence  that  another 
night  of  horror  lay  before  me.  Ah,  when 
did  I  refuse  to  answer  a  word  of  yours  ? 
When  I  sent  you  letter  after  letter  and  tele- 
gram after  telegram,  and  I  found  you  meant 
to  leave  them  all  unanswered,  hell  could 
have  held  no  surprises  for  me.  But  why 
should  I  speak  of  these  sufferings,  since  I 
deserved  them,  and  since  you  will  at  least 
permit  me  to  see  you  once  more,  and  tell 
you  on  my  knees  how  repentant  and 
ashamed  I  am  of  my  mad  conduct,  on  that 
horrible  day  ?  Oh,  perhaps,  if  it  were  an- 
other man's  cause,  I  might,  even  on  this 
paper,  plead  it  in  such  a  way  as  a  little  to 
allay  the  just  and  intense  resentment  that 
you  feel.  All  I  will  say  now  is  that  you 
must  remember  that  it  was  only  the  fear  of 
being  kept  away  from  you  that  maddened 
me  to  speak  those  cruel  words  ;  and  that  I 


200  HIS  LETTERS 

was  already  dazed  and  half  beside  myself 
by  something  unkind  you  had  said  on  meet- 
ing me. 

Yet  how  strange  it  seems  to  me  ;  these 
tortures  which  would  have  made  me  hate 
another  woman,  have  only  made  me  adore 
you  more. 

Letter  Seventy-second. 

I  waited  until  six  o'clock,  and  then  came 
home  in  despair.  Home  ?  It  has  been  like 
a  grave  to  me.  This  morning  I  was  nearly 
dead — your  silence  had  almost  killed  me. 
Do  you  think  it  hurt  me  less  because  I 
knew  I  had  deserved  it  ?  Ah,  yes,  God 
knows  that  I  deserved  it  for  saying,  under 
any  circumstances,  and  no  matter  what  I 
thought,  a  single  harsh  word  to  a  woman  so 
sweet,  so  .sweet  as  you.  Have  you  im- 
agined for  an  instant  that  I  did  not  appre- 
ciate your  infinite  sweetness  and  your  good- 
ness ?  Yes,  it  was  your  very  goodness, 
your  heartfelt  wish  to  be  good  and  to  make 
me  good  that  provoked  my  resentment. 
Was  there  ever  anything  so  horribly 
wicked  ?  I  wanted  to  be  bad,  and  I  grew 


HIS  LETTERS  2OI 

fearfully  angry,  because  I  saw  that  you  did 
not  feel  as  I  did ;  or  rather  because  I  saw 
that  you  were  so  incomparably  better  a 
woman  than  I  was  a  man.  I  thought  and 
said,  in  my  frantic  folly,  that  I  could  better 
bear  never  to  see  you  than  to  see  you  only 
as  a  friend.  But  I  lied.  I  must  see  you. 
I  could  not  live  without  it.  If  I  wanted 
proof,  these  last  few  days  have  given  it. 
Ah  yes,  they  have  taught  me  that  whatever 
you  wish  I  must  submit  to ;  that  anything, 
anything,  everything  is  bearable  but  to  lose 
the  sight  of  your  face  and  the  sound  of  your 
voice.  Ever  since  Thurdsay,  when  I  woke 
up  with  a  start  to  a  sense  of  what  I  had 
done — the  iniquity  of  it — before  I  got  your 
sentence  of  banishment,  I  have  scarcely 
slept  at  all.  For  two  days  I  had  not  eaten. 
In  the  wildest  agitation,  on  Thursday  even- 
ing, I  wrote  you  a  few  lines  of  incoherent 
appeal ;  and  I  sent  you  a  little  message  on 
Saturday.  And  I  hoped,  hoped  with  a 
fainting  hope,  that  I  might  get  one  word 
from  you  on  Monday.  But  I  did  not. 
And  then  Tuesday  also  passed — still  si- 
lence— oh,  I  have  been  punished  enough. 


202  HIS  LETTERS 

Don't  punish  me  any  more ;  I  cannot  sup- 
port it,  I  am  worn  out  with  suffering. 
Heavens !  how  incredible  it  is  that  one 
human  being  should  be  able,  just  by  silence, 
to  give  such  awful  pain  to  another. 

When  I  telegraphed,  this  morning,  I  did 
not  mean  to  write.  I  wanted  to  speak  by 
word  of  mouth.  I  am  so  trammeled  when 
I  write.  But  I  could  not  wait.  I  must 
ask  you  .  .  .  don't  you  care  for  me  any 
more  ?  Will  you  never  care  for  me  any 
more  ?  I  do  not  ask  you  to  forgive  me,  but 
I  implore  you  to  spare  me,  and  to  still,  still 
like  me  a  little.  I  love  you  a  thousand 
times  more  than  ever.  The  more  I  suffer 
the  more  ardently  I  love.  But  don't,  on  that 
account,  make  me  suffer  any  more  just  now. 
Give  me  a  little  respite.  Why,  formerly 
I  used  to  think  myself  unhappy  ;  but  what 
was  that  to  the  unheard-of  misery  that  I 
have  gone  through  in  the  last  few  days  ?  I 
simply  could  not  have  supported  it  longer. 
The  limit  of  endurance  would  have  been 
passed  to-day. 

Heavens,  dearest — let  me  call  you  so  once 
more — is  it  possible  that  I  am  going  to 


HIS  LETTERS  203 

see  you  again  and  to-morrow  ?  I  can't  be- 
lieve it.  I  shall  not  believe  it  until  my 
hungry  eyes  pounce  upon  your  lovely  face. 
Oh,  will  that  face  be  cold,  or  far  worse,  sad  ? 
Then  what  will  become  of  me  ?  I  shall  be 
speechless,  but  at  least  I  can  look  at  you. 
You  know  not  what  joy  that  will  be  to  me. 
I  love  you,  I  never  loved  you  so  des- 
perately as  I  do  at  this  hour.  I  am  insane 
with  the  desire  to  see  you.  Would  to  God 
that  to-morrow  afternoon  were  here ! 

Letter  Seventy-third. 

It  is  just  half  an  hour,  my  love,  my  love, 
since  I  found  your  sweet,  forgiving  letter.  I 
would  to  God  at  this  moment  I  could  be- 
dew your  pretty  feet  with  tears.  Alas,  I 
had  thought  for  a  moment  that  you  were  in 
the  wrong,  but  it  is  always  I.  Oh,  darling, 
with  the  infinite  kindness  which  you  have 
always  shown  to  me,  listen  to  me  for  a  mo- 
ment, while  I  show  how  I  could  so  fearfully 
misunderstand.  Ten  minutes  before  I 
reached  your  house  I  had  obtained  and  read 
a  heavenly  letter  which  was  still  warm  on 
my  heart,  when  I  met  you  at  your  door,  and 


204  HIS  LETTERS 

you  informed  me  not  only  that  you  could 
not  see  me  at  your  house  that  day,  but  that 
you  never  would  unless  I  came  simply  as  a 
friend.  It  simply  meant  dismissal.  I  was 
dazed,  bewildered,  and  you  will  remember 
that  through  our  walk  you  said  nothing  in 
explanation,  until  we  reached  the  riverside, 
after  which  something  else  occurred.  Do 
you  think  it  was  wholly  strarige  that  it 
seemed  to  me,  if  I  was  to  be  sent  away,  that 
it  might  have  been  done  by  letter,  and 
without  exposing  everything  to  news  cater- 
ers— to  the  public?  But  about  that  I  should 
have  cared  literally  nothing,  if  I  had  not 
supposed  that  I  had  lost  you.  Ah,  dear, 
my  heart,  I  trust,  is  large  enough  for  pity 
toward  those  who  have  few  friends.  But 
you  are  the  only  woman,  sweet  one,  that  I 
have  ever  loved  upon  this  earth.  You  have 
taught  me  what  love  really  is,  a  terrible, 
delirious,  delicious  thing. 

Letter  Seventy-fourth. 

I  wish — so  inconsequent  is  man  when  he 
is  agitated — that  you  might  have  glanced 
at  my  letter  before  seeing  me.  Perhaps, 


HIS  LETTERS  205 

then,  you  would  have  been  to  me  less  cold 
and  implacable  than  I  fear  you  will  be  now, 
I  am  afraid  to  see  you.  I  am  certain  that  I 
shall  shiver  when  I  mount  your  stairs.  Ah, 
I  know  well  you  can  be,  when  you  choose, 
what  Milton  calls  "  terrible  to  approach." 
But  I  shall  come.  I  would  not  miss  the 
chance  of  seeing  you  if  I  knew  that  I  had  to 
die.  Say  what  you  will  to  me,  treat  me  as 
you  please.  At  least  I  shall  have  looked  at 
you  and  listened  to  your  voice  once  more. 
What  an  idiot  I  was  to  say  that  I  could  not 
bear  a  Platonic  attachment ;  that  to  this  I 
preferred  nothing.  Why  it  was  a  lie  ;  a  few 
hours  would  have  proved  it  to  me.  Any- 
thing is  a  whole  world  better  than  nothing. 
If  I  were  never  to  see  or  hear  from  you 
again,  I  could  not  and  would  not  live  an 
hour.  No  consideration  of  compassion  for 
others  could  restrain  me,  for  I  should  not 
be  master  of  myself.  I  could  not  bear  the 
awful  gloom  and  loneliness  that  would  en- 
compass me.  But  there — I  will  not  ask  you 
to  forgive  me ;  you  do  not  like  it,  and  I 
would  not  have  you  do  it  if  you  would.  It 
is  not  your  forgiveness  that  I  want,  it  is 


206  HIS  LETTERS 

your  love.  Yes,  love,  in  spite  of  my  wick- 
edness to  you.  I  know  that  what  I  said 
was  wicked.  I  hate  myself  for  saying  it, 
but  I  loved  you  all  the  time,  and,  oh,  you 
knew  it.  You  knew  that  by  your  silence 
you  consigned  me  to  the  most  frightful  tor- 
ture. You  did  well,  dear  one,  to  be  angry, 
but  don't  be  angry  any  more.  Be  once 
more  sweet  to  me.  Don't  you  think  you 
can  ?  Oh,  at  all  events,  let  me  love  you. 

Letter  Seventy -fifth. 

I  have  your  letter.  Then  you  had  cared 
for  me  a  little  ;  I  really  was  convinced  you 
did  not.  I  was  frozen.  I  had  put  this  and* 
that  together.  I  was  sure  you  had  cast  me 
off  forever.  I  couldn't  bear  it.  My  God, 
what  have  I  suffered  !  Why,  I  love  you  to 
distraction.  I  must  see  you.  I  am  going 
to  take  this  to  your  door.  If  you  are  not 
at  home  I  can  leave  it.  Let  me  see  you 
again  ;  I  cannot  live  without  you,  I  love 
you. 

These  last  days  I  have  seen  only  your 
enemies.  How  I  hate  them.  I  hate  every- 
one who  stands  between  me  and  you. 


HIS  LETTERS  207 

Oh,  don't  poison  me  again  with  your  cold- 
ness. Don't  make  me  jealous. 

Oh,  I  am  so  changed  !  I  have  been  ill  ; 
you  will  not  know  me. 

Dear,  give  me  a  word. 

Letter  Seventy-sixth. 

Ah  dearest,  my  own  darling,  my  precious 
one,  I  am  like  a  man  that  was  dead  and  am 
alive  again.  When  I  left  your  door,  I  did 
not  walk,  I  clove  the  air.  The  wings  that 
I  lost  had  sprouted  from  my  shoulder ;  I 
looked  about  me  with  delight  and  ravish- 
ment. The  streets,  I  dare  say,  were  black 
with  mud,  but  to  me  they  seemed  paved 
with  ivory  and  pearl.  The  men  and  women 
that  I  met  were  doubtless  sordid  and 
shabby,  but  to  me  they  seemed  to  have 
angel's  faces,  and  they  stared  at  me  as  if  I 
were  a  man  in  a  trance.  One  thought  was 
always  singing  in  my  breast.  .  .  .  Heavens  ! 
what  a  blissful,  what  a  heavenly  reaction  ! 
Since  I  got  up  to  face  another  day,  with 
conviction  that  I  should  never  see  her 
again,  that  I  had  lost  her,  lost  her  through 
my  own  mad  folly. 


208  HIS  LETTERS 

And  now,  darling,  I  must  confess  it, 
though  it  is  a  feeling  which  a  man  with  any 
pride  despises,  that  it  is  a  wild  jealousy 
which  greatly  increases  the  tortures  of 
separation  from  you.  I  am  always  on  the 
look-out  for  material  to  feed  that  detestable 
passion.  You  are  so  inexpressibly  sweet, 
I  know,  that  I  ought  wholly  to  trust  you  ; 
but  I  can't.  When  I  am  with  you  I  be- 
lieve ;  but  alas,  when  I  am  away  from  you 
doubt  returns.  .  .  .  How  can  you  say  that  I 
don't  like  you  to  tell  me  the  smallest  details 
of  your  life  ?  I  love  it,  except  when  you 
tell  me  of  the  many  men  who  surround 
you.  You  didn't  mean  me  to  like  that,  did 
you  ?  But  everything  else  you  tell  me 
delights  me.  Why,  dearest,  when  you  are 
in  good  spirits  you  do  not  so  much  talk  as 
sing.  It  is  like  the  carol  of  a  lark.  Carol 
to  me  to-morrow,  darling  ;  ah  yes,  write  to- 
morrow, sweet  one,  that  I  may  get  it  on 
Monday,  and  possess  my  soul  in  patience. 
What  a  love  you  are !  There  never  was 
such  an  enchanting  creature.  Even  your 
anger  sets  my  brain  on  fire. 

I  have  just  read  your  last  letter  for  the 


HIS  LETTERS  209 

twentieth  time ;  and  I  cannot  control  my 
agitation.  1  have  had  to  pace  my  floor.  I 
have  been  thinking  of  your  beauty,  that 
beauty  from  which  a  lover  might  drink  the 
very  wine  of  life.  Never  was  there  so 
superb  a  beauty,  so  regal,  so  imperial.  I 
am  sick  of  looking  at  pictures  and  statues 
since  I  have  seen  your  matchless  loveliness ; 
and  such  vitality,  such  magnetism,  such  a 
flame  of  love  shoots  from  every  fiber  of 
your  entrancing  body. 

I  can  write  no  more.     Good-night ! 

Letter  Seventy -seventh. 

Your  dear  telegram*  sent  to  me  by , 

comforted  me  a  little ;  but  I  have  been  in 
the  depths  since  I  parted  with  you,  and  I 
know  not  what  will  become  of  me.  Yes, 
there  is  something  of  the  tigress  in  you. 
You  have  the  cruelty  of  that  animal.  You 
like,  I  think,  to  look  at  suffering.  I  am  not 
going  to  speak  of  your  rebukes,  which 
wasted  nearly  half  of  four  precious,  irrevoc- 
able hours,  except  to  say  this  :  you  say  that 
you  would  not  reprove  me  if  you  did  not 
care  for  me.  That  is  true.  It  is  a  proof  of 


210  HIS  LETTERS 

love,  but  a  sad  one.  Are  there  not  others 
more  becoming  a  sweet  and  noble  woman 
like  yourself  ?  might  you  not  as  well  say 
that  the  destructive  lightning  is,  after  all, 
an  outcome  of  the  same  mysterious  force 
which  has  other  products  beneficent  and 
beautiful,  which  draws  man  to  woman,  and 
which  is  so  strangely  potent  in  your  own 
lovely  body,  dear  one  ?  And  does  it  never 
occur  to  you  that  if  your  reproofs  have  the 
power  to  wound  me  so  deeply  and  so  long 
it  is  because  I  love  you  so  much  ?  Have 
you  not  observed  how  indifferent  I  am  to 
the  opinions  of  others,  to  their  praise  or 
their  blame  ?  Ah,  is  it  not  almost  cowardly 
to  twist  around  a  knife  in  a  breast  which  is 
invulnerable  except  where  it  beats  for  you  ? 
Then,  dearest,  I  have  a  hot,  fierce  temper 
myself ;  and  I  shudder  lest  some  day  I 
should  be  provoked,  by  what  seems  to  me 
injustice,  to  speak  again  bitter  words,  I 
know  not  what,  which  I  should  all  my  life 
long  be  sorry  for.  But  there — let  me  say 
no  more. 

Do  wear  the  roses  in  your  bosom,  for  my 
sake,  which  I  send. 


tfIS  LETTERS  211 

Letter  Seventy-eighth. 

Your  heart  told  you  that  my  heart  would 
ache,  and  so  you  sent  me  that  pretty  box. 
The  flowers  have  had  more  kissing  than 
any  flowers,  even  yours,  deserve,  except 
that  loveliest  of  scarlet  blossoms,  your 
beautiful  mouth.  But  you  are  not  mine, 
you  are  not  mine,  and  you  never  will  be ! 

It  was  an  enchanting  little  letter  that 
came  with  the  roses,  and  yet  I  sighed  when 
I  had  read  it.  Not,  dearest,  that  I  was  not 
comforted  to  think  that  you  suffered  a 
little,  or  that  you  suffered  as  well  as  I. 
That  was  a  comfort.  One  yearns  for  sym- 
pathy in  pain.  What  made  me  sigh  was 
the  unconscious  revelation  in  the  note,  of 
the  limitations  of  your  feeling  for  me. 
Alas,  I  am  a  great  philosopher  in  love, 
doctor  in  amore.  I  would  I  were  not.  In 
such  things  it  is  indeed  folly  to  be  wise. 
But  how  much  happier  I  should  be  if  I 
could  deceive  myself !  But  I  see  so 
clearly,  I  see  that  you  are  so  sympathetic, 
so  gentle,  so  generous,  so  womanly,  that 
when  you  find  a  man  is  really  in  love  with 


212  HIS  LETTERS 

you,  you  give  him  a  soothing  species  of 
responsive  tenderness  that  would  beguile 
any  man,  and  may  even  for  a  little  while 
deceive  yourself.  But  I  recognize  also 
that  you  are  the  last  woman  in  the  world 
to  control  yourself,  if  Aphrodite  had  truly 
marked  you  for  her  own.  Heavens,  no  ! 
one  might  as  well  attempt  to  chain  a  whirl- 
wind. I  remember  saying  something  like 
this  to  myself  the  first  time  I  ever  saw  you : 
"  This  entrancing  creature,"  I  thought  to 
myself,  "  would,  I  have  no  doubt,  speak 
most  sagely  about  duty ;  ay,  and  make 
every  word  good  in  act.  She  knows,  how- 
ever, that  she  blasphemes  a  little  when  she 
talks  of  love,  that  she  takes  in  vain  the 
name  of  a  great  and  terrible  god,  who 
knows  of  no  compromises,  no  divided 
allegiance,  no  escape,  no  rescue.  This 
woman  will  be  in  love  with  love,  rather 
than  with  her  lover.  The  conflict  between 
love  and  duty — ah  me !  the  wise  ones 
know  that  such  a  conflict  is  unthinkable. 
You  remember  the  mediaeval  legend — 
Tennyson  treats  it,  I  think,  in  one  of  his 
idyls — about  a  pretty  boy,  who  masquer- 


HIS  LETTERS  2*3 

ades  in  the  arms  of  the  knight  invincible, 
and  essays  to  keep  a  certain  pass.  At  the 
mere  sight  of  that  terrible  armor,  many  a 
good  warrior  gives  way,  and  yet,  as  it 
turned  out,  anyone  who  would  but  sit  his 
horse  firmly,  and  poise  his  lance  steadily, 
and  confront  the  masquerader,  would  have 
overcome  him  at  a  stroke.  But  you  see  it 
was  not  love,  the  knight  invincible,  that 
was  worsted  in  that  fight,  but  only  one  of 
his  many  winsome  and  elusive  counterfeits. 
To  a  woman  that  loves  there  is  no 
tragedy  like  that  of  love  unsatisfied ;  no 
spectacle  so  piteous  as  the  prayerful  eyes 
and  wistful  lips  of  an  unrequited  lover  ;  no 
emotion  so  profound,  so  mighty,  so  irresist- 
ible as  the  stirings  and  upheavings  of  a  self- 
immolating  passion.  I  will  talk  no  more 
of  that.  I  have  spoken  once  to  show  you 
that  I  know,  and  so  that  you  hereafter, 
looking  back,  may  say,  "  He  knew  me 
better  than  I  knew  myself.  I  deceived  my- 
self, but  he  was  not  deceived."  I  will 
speak  no  more  on  this  subject,  for  I  am 
well  aware  that  not  by  argument  can  love 
be  evoked  where  it  exists  not.  If  a  woman 


214  tflS  LETTERS 


loves  not,  whose  fault  is  it?  surely  not 
hers,  the  man's.  Men  ought  to  remember 
this  then  ;  they  would  be  able  to  retain  at 
least  their  self-respect. 

Alt  revoir,  sweet  lady,  you  have  prom- 
ised to  see  me.  Do  you  repent  already 
of  the  promise  ?  You  need  not.  I  am  go- 
ing to  succumb  to  the  situation.  We  will 
speak  only  of  art  to-day. 

Letter  Seventy-ninth. 

You  have  no  more  conception  of  the 
depth  and  height  and  fervor  of  my  love  for 
you  than  a  child  fifteen  years  old  would 
have.  If  you  had,  it  would  be  utterly 
impossible  for  you  to  misconstrue  me  as 
you  do  sometimes.  .There  is  nothing  you 
could  do  —  except  one  thing  —  that  I  would 
not  think  beautiful  because  you  did  it. 
But  you  are  eternally  accusing  me  of 
things  that  I  am  not  guilty  of.  Do  you 
think  me  capable  of  deliberately  lowering 
myself  in  your  esteem  ?  Do  you  suppose 
that,  if  there  had  been  what  you  imagined, 
I  could  have  mentioned  that  person's 
name  to  you  ?  That  I  would  not  have 


HIS  LETTERS  215 

avoided  it  as  I  would  the  plague  ?  Some- 
times I  am  sad  unto  death.  It  is  a  mad- 
ness to  me  to  think  of  all  the  years  that  I 
have  missed.  Do  you  think  I  have  no 
cause  to  weep  for  them,  those  years,  lost, 
lost,  irrevocable  ?  O  Heavens !  what  a 
knell  is  that  word  !  For  if  I  had  known 
you  then  my  life  would  not  have  been 
shadowed  with  the  awful  tragedy  which 
darkened  it  so  long,  a  tragedy  I  have  never 
spoken  of  to  a  human  being,  which  I  can- 
not speak  of  now.  Had  I  known  you  all 
would  have  been  different. 

Do  you  know  why  I  chose  those  par- 
ticular roses  yesterday  ?  Do  you  not 
know  that  the  tender,  soft,  pale  pink  of 
their  inner  petals  recalled  to  me  the  blush 
on  your  fair  cheek  ;  and  the  satin  skin  of 
my  queen's  foot  as  it  gleams  through  the 
stocking's  mesh  of  lace  ? 

I  dreamed  last  night  we  were  upon  our 
island.  Oh,  how  much  nicer  you  are  upon 
our  island  and  in  my  dreams  than  you  were 
when  I  last  saw  you,  than  you  will  be  to- 
day !  There,  you  seemed  to  want  me, 
dearest,  near  you,  almost  as  much  as  I 


216  HIS  LETTERS 

want  you.  You  have  no  wish  to  torture 
me.  On  Wednesday  you  were  of  ice. 
Oh,  what  fibs  you  tell !  It  is  your  only 
fault.  You  don't  keep  your  promises, 
madame  !  You  take  advantage  of  the  fact 
that  your  creditor  is  altogether  too  nice  to 
dun  you.  You  keep  a  man  for  weeks  in  a 
state  of  intolerable  agitation,  and  then  push 
him  away  with  your  soft  palm.  But  alas ! 
although  I  am  bold  as  a  lion  on  that  island, 
I  am  dreadfully  afraid  of  you  when  I  see 
you. 

Letter  Eightieth. 

How  dare  people  get  married,  and  how 
without  shame  can  they  live  together  in 
certain  close  relations,  when  the  only  feel- 
ings they  know  are  but  the  pale  ghosts  of 
mine?  Did  you  ever  see  a  man  look  at  a 
woman  as  I  look  at  you  ?  Why  my  eyes 
are  insatiable.  They  never  let  you  es- 
cape. Yes,  just  to  look  at  you  can  almost 
quiet  me.  Oh,  no,  quiet  is  not  the  word, 
control,  not  quiet ;  and  let  me  tell  you, 
I  have  gazed  at  you  so  long  and  tenderly 
that  I  foresee  the  time  will  come  when 


HIS  LETTERS  217 

we  shall  know  what  we  are  thinking 
without  the  help  of  speech.  That  will  be 
inconvenient  for  you,  dear,  will  it  not  ?  I, 
however,  shall  not  mind  it  in  the  least. 
I  have  not  a  thought  which  I  would  not  be 
glad  that  my  beloved  should  see,  for  I 
haven't  one  that  does  not  point  to  her. 

Letter  Eighty-first. 

I  know  what  you  are  doing  is  going  to  be 
a  fine  and  noble  piece  of  work.  If  you  are 
depressed  about  it,  that  means  nothing  ex- 
cept that  you  are  a  woman  of  superior  tal- 
ent, no,  of  genius,  and  therefore  cannot  help 
fastening  your  eyes  upon  minor  shortcom- 
ings more  than  upon  noble  achievements. 
You  see  you  are  aiming  at  a  star,  and  if  you 
happen  to  miss,  you  will  not  condescend  to 
notice  that  your  arrow  has  far  outflown  all 
others  that  have  been  shot  this  year  or  last. 
It  is  just  like  you  to  want  to  return  good 
for  evil,  to  say  something  kind  about  that 
person  who  attacked  you. 

What  you  said  about  wanting  to  dance 
with  me  touched  me  so  much.  How  well  I 
understood  what  was  in  your  mind.  It  is 


218  HIS  LETTERS 

in  my  mind  also.  Ah,  how  I  long  to  claim 
you  in  the  sight  of  God  and  man  !  How 
proud  I  should  be  of  you  !  You  know  that 
I  love  you  as  you  deserve  to  be  loved,  and 
you  know  also  that  I  deserve  to  be  loved 
even  by  such  a  glorious,  magnificent  daugh- 
ter of  passion  as  yourself.  I  live  only  in 
the  present  and  the  future.  I  never  lived 
before.  My  past  is  dead,  sealed  with  seven 
seals.  Ah,  do  not  you  unseal  it !  Remem- 
ber only  that  I  love  for  the  first  time,  that  I 
love  to  distraction. 

I  must  thank  you,  loveliest  and  dear- 
est, for  the  sweet  letter  I  got  yesterday,  the 
first  since  I  pressed  your  perfect  hand  at 
parting,  and  watched  my  goddess  pace  away. 
How  well  I  understand  every  phase  and 
current  of  your  exquisite  yet  ardent  nature  ! 
I  thank  God  that  I  am  qualified  to  under- 
stand a  being  at  once  so  delicate,  so  noble, 
and  so  impassioned.  Yes,  I  know  why  you 
seem  to  shiver  at  one  moment,  and  to  shrink 
half  fearful  from  him  that  adores  you  ;  and 
in  the  next  moment  yield  your  spirit  in  the 
abandonment  of  love  and  faith.  All  this 
time  I  can  think  only  of  two  things — how 


HIS  LETTERS  219 

you  looked  when  I  last  saw  you,  and  how 
you  will  look  when  I  see  you  next. 
A  bientot,  dnie  de  ma  vie  ! 

Letter  Eighty-second. 

Oh,  would  to  God,  my  darling,  that  we 
were  living  together  in  some  enchanted 
island,  where  it  might  be  my  blessed  privi- 
lege to  be  your  servant,  to  do  everything 
for  you,  you  lovely  little  dear  !  It  is  agony 
to  me  to  know  that  anyone  else  has  the 
right  to  do  the  smallest  thing  for  you. 
Let  me  thrust  that  thought  away !  Why 
do  I  so  often  use  diminutives  to  you,  such 
a  tall  and  stately  creature  ?  Ah,  He*loise — 
Helo  you  say  is  the  pet  name,  what  a 
sweet  name — those  little  words  fall  instinc- 
tively from  the  pen  of  love,  when  it  is  a 
man  who  holds  it.  Yes,  it  is  the  deep- 
planted  virile  instinct  'that  forces  him — if 
only  to  soothe  his  wounded  heart — to 
think  of  the  beloved  one  as  utterly  depend- 
ent on  him,  as  wholly,  entirely  his  own. 
My  pride  is  tortured  by  our  present  situ- 
ation, and  what  balm  it  would  be  if  I 
could  claim  you  in  the  sight  of  man  and 


220  HIS  LETTERS 

Heaven.  And  yet  that  is  the  weakest  of  the 
reasons  why  I  should  not  be  satisfied  with 
being  the  lover  of  a  princess,  but  should 
long  to  be  her  husband.  Heavens,  what  it 
would  mean  to  me  to  be  absolutely  certain 
that  I  should  see  you  every  day,  that  every 
night  you  might  be  near  me  !  How  could 
we  ever  know  satiety?  It  is  only  common 
souls  that  know  it.  Did  Antony  and  Cleo- 
patra know  it  ?  Oh,  what  ecstacy  it  would 
be  to  work  for  thee !  You  asked  me 
once  how  you  had  changed  me.  Why  the 
change  goes  to  the  very  root  of  things. 
Before  I  saw  you  I  considered  my  life  a 
failure,  manqute,  and  I  was  dying  of  atrophy 
of  heart,  of  the  collapse  of  hope.  But 
since  I  have  the  rapture  of  knowing  you, 
how  can  I  think  my  life  a  failure  ?  A  glori- 
ous triumph,  rather,  a  towering  elevation. 
Ah,  you  have  given  *  me  such  energy,  such 
quickened  instinct,  such  vibrating  sympa- 
thies, such  an  intense  interest  in  human  life. 
What  do  I  not  owe  you  ?  pleasure  only  ? 
the  divinest  that  ever  mortal  tasted  ?  Oh, 
no  ;  that  is  only  a  fraction  of  my  debt. 
I  boil  with  indignation  when  J  hear  of 


HIS  LETTERS  221 

the  silly,  waspish,  and  brutal  attacks  upon 
your  work.  Listen  to  me  ;  I  shall  speak 
soberly  and  disinterestedly.  I  know  as 
much  as  most  of  those  who  venture  to  name 
you.  I  insist  that  this  single  picture,  the 
first  that  I  ever  saw,  would  have  given  the 
artist  a  great  reputation.  There  is  in  all 
you  do  skill,  insight,  sympathy,  imagina- 
tion, pathos,  and  infectious  life  breathes 
on  your  canvas.  You  would  never  be 
attacked  were  you  a  poor,  unknown,  un- 
envied  person  ;  but  you  are  a  great  lady, 
beautiful,  admired,  puissante,  and  it  cuts 
to  the  quick  a  lot  of  less  successful 
aspirants  for  fame,  who  have  borne  the 
burden  and  heat  of  the  day,  to  see  you  at 
the  eleventh  hour,  by  virtue  of  the  added 
splendor  of  your  talent,  stretch  forth  a 
shapely,  languid  hand,  and  calmly  pluck 
the  guerdon  for  which  they  have  perspired 
in  vain.  Ah,  pity  the  poor  things,  my  own  ; 
they  but  disclose  their  own  sufferings. 
They  cannot  harm  you.  .  .  .  All  the  really 
competent,  penetrating  critics  who  have  in- 
tellect enough  to  be  candid,  and  who  can 
afford  the  luxury  of  self-respect,  have  said 


222  HIS  LETTERS 

as  much  and  more  and  better.  You  know 
that  to  be  so.  Then  do  not  let  these  ants 
have  the  satisfaction  of  stinging  a  being 
whose  mind  and  heart  they  are  too  grovel- 
ing to  understand. 

Dearest,  don't  be  angry  with  me  for  hav- 
ing sent  you  such  a  scorching  letter  yester- 
day. I  should  not  send  such  missiles  ;  I 
swear  that  I  will  do  so  no  more.  But  I 
had  been  parted  from  you  so  long,  and  the 
mere  glimpse  that  I  had  of  you  heaped  fuel 
on  the  flame.  Ah,  what  torment  in  Dante's 
catalogue  was  comparable  to  what  I  suffer, 
to  know  you  so  near  and  not  to  see  you, 
not  to  be  able  to  fall  at  your  feet.  Yet  I 
hope  that  you  read  that  letter  ;  although  I 
know  full  well  it  exists  no  more. 

Letter  Eighty-third. 

I  have  your  letter,  the  second.  Ah,  dear- 
est, how  beautifully  you  write  to  me.  I  have 
reproached  myself  far  otherwise.  There 
are  certain  moods  in  which  I  am  whirled 
like  a  leaf  in  a  storm.  I  have  sworn  to  my- 
self that  in  such  moods  I  will  run  from  a 
pen  instead  of  seizing  it,  They  are  not  my 


tftS  LETTERS  223 

only  moods,  ah,  no;  nor  are  they  dominant. 
I  give  you  my  word  of  honor  that  if  you 
deliberately  say  to  me — by  letter,  not  by 
word  of  mouth,  for  I  should  need  time  to 
collect  myself — that  to  make  me  happy 
would  make  you  unhappy,  there  is  such 
boundless  love  and  worship  in  my  soul  for 
my  darling,  that  I  could  be  to  you  what 
Dante  was  to  Beatrice,  or  Petrarch  to 
Laura.  Oh,  yes,  I  could — I  feel  it — I  could 
live  upon  your  letters — and  never,  to  my 
latest  breath,  would  a  thought  stray  from 
her  that  I  adored.  This  is  true ;  it  is 
heaven's  truth.  I  love  you,  dear,  as  a  saint 
might  wish  to  be  loved,  and  if  I  love  you  in 
other  ways,  and  sometimes  speak  of  them, 
it  is  because  I  see  you  so  little,  and  get  just 
enough  to  make  me  frantic.  Do  I  not, 
thou  darling  of  my  soul  ?  Oh,  my  God  !  I 
cannot  help  it,  it  is  not  my  fault  but  fate's, 
that  since  I  have  seen  you  and  touched 
your  hand  I  have  desired  you  fiercely. 

But  if  you  misjudge  me  I  will  kill  myself. 
This  is  no  idle  threat ;  it  is  the  cold  state- 
ment of  a  fact. 


224  HIS  LETTERS 

Letter  Eighty-fourth. 

Ah,  sweet  one,  never  have  I  loved  you 
more  devotedly  than  at  this  moment.  Your 
two  beautiful  letters  of  Saturday  and  Sun- 
day, enclosed  in  one  envelope,  have  just 
come  into  my  yearning  hand.  Never,  I 
think,  since  writing  was  invented,  did  woman 
write  to  man  words  at  once  so  tender  and 
so  intoxicating.  Dear,  I  can  never  have 
enough  of  them.  I  love  you  so  madly,  am 
so  utterly,  completely  thine,  that  I  cannot 
be  told  too  frequently  that  you  care  for  me 
a  little.  You  have  not,  have  you,  any  con- 
ception of  what  rapture  you  give  me  with  a 
tender  word  ?  I  love  you  more  and  more, 
daily  and  hourly ;  though  I  thought  months 
ago  that  my  heart  was  swelled  to  bursting. 
But  there  is  no  end  to  the  devotion  that 
you  evoke.  You  speak  to  me  in  every 
beautiful  sight,  in  each  delightful  tone  and 
odor,  in  each  enchanting  or  elevating 
thought.  You  inform  the  atmosphere  with 
hope  and  love.  Would  to  God  that  at 
this  very  instant  your  little  bronzed  shoe 
were  on  my  neck.  But  what  does  my  dar- 


HIS  LETTERS  22$ 

ling  mean  about  pitfalls?  Do  you  appre- 
hend danger  from  any  source  ?  Enlighten 
me.  I  do  not  wonder  you  are  distrustful. 

So  you  didn't  like  Mrs.  C.'s  black  eyes ; 
no  more  did  I.  To  think  that  you  should 
fancy  that  the  man  you  stooped  to  could 
admire  eyes  of  any  tint  but  yours !  But 
the  poor  thing  who  led  such  a  dreadful  life 
with  C.  had,  I  believe,  beauty  as  well  as 
remarkable  intellect,  and  arch,  roguish,  be- 
witching ways.  And  in  these  respects  she 
was  a  little  like  my  darling.  Didn't  you 
like  me  to  think  that  ?  I  couldn't  help 
thinking  it.  Whenever  I  read  of  anyone 
attractive  I  say  to  myself :  yes,  she  reminds 
me  a  little  of  her,  as  the  moon  reminds  one 
of  the  sun. 

Dearest,  I  have  pressed  my  lips  long  and 
passionately  to  a  little  place  in  your  letter, 
pressed  them  till  my  head  spun  round. 
Would  that  at  this  moment  I  could  put  my 
lips  as  ardently  to  your  lovely  hand.  Good- 
night. 


226  HIS  LETTERS 

Letter  Eighty-fifth. 

I  really  cannot  see  why  I  might  not  have 
a  cup  of  tea  with  you  to-morrow.  I  do  not 
think  that  your  explanations  explain.  You 
simply  don't  want  me  to  come  ;  that  is  all. 
I  don't  believe  you  ever  mean  me  to  come 
again.  This  is  a  thought  that  suddenly 
has  come  to  me.  If  it  ripen  to  a  convic- 
tion I  shall  go  away.  I  shall  go  at  once, 
and  put  three  hundred  miles  between  us. 
Fool  that  I  am,  I  should  come  back  the 
next  day,  to  learn  whether  you  had  cared 
much.  But  seriously,  I  think  that  precious 
opportunities,  never  perhaps  to  be  regained, 
are  being  lost.  I  call  them  opportunities  ; 
perhaps  you  call  them  pitfalls  to  be  assidu- 
ously shunned.  .  .  .  You  were  very  hand- 
some to-day.  I  do  not  know  that  I  ever 
saw  your  eyes  and  lips  more  beautiful. 
And  what  bewitching  little  shoes  !  They 
did  entire  justice  to  your  exquisite  foot. 
I  envy  the  shoe-maker  that  made  them. 
His  must  have  been  a  labor  of  love.  I 
have  told  you  before,  have  I  not,  how  much 
I  like  your  hand  ?  How  white  and  smooth 


HIS  LETTERS  227 

and  strong  it  is  !  And  it  is  with  this  hand 
that  you  write  to  me !  Think  of  me  at 
least  sometimes,  and  comfort  me  by  saying 
that  you  do.  For  hours  after  I  get  a  letter 
from  you,  if  it  is  a  kind  one,  I  am  in  bliss. 

When  I  come  in  what  balm  to  senses 
and  to  heart  to  find  upon  my  desk  one  of 
your  dear  messages  turning  up  its  sweet 
face  to  be  kissed ;  scenting  the  air  with  its 
faint,  fine,  familiar  fragrance.  Still  carol  to 
me  ;  my  ear  thirsts  for  thy  melody.  In  my 
heart  is  your  nest  builded. 

Would  I  have  you  stoop  to  the  make- 
shifts of  other  women  ?  If  I  said  yes,  my 
angel,  I  should  be  the  basest  man  on  earth. 
A  man  permitted  by  some  relenting  mood  of 
Heaven  to  find  a  blossom  of  Eden  in  his 
path,  only  to  tread  it  in  the  mire.  Ah  ! 
that,  indeed,  would  be  turning  from  heaven, 
hellward.  I  know,  then,  the  love  which 
you  awaken  in  me  is  the  most  blessed 
influence  my  life  has  ever  known.  It  would 
be  appalling  to  think  it  were  otherwise  with 
you. 

Say  that,  for  you  also,  our  intercourse 
has  not  been  wholly  wanting  in  stimulus,  in 


228  HIS  LETTERS 

sympathy,    n   awaking  to   the  fullness  and 
beauty  and  ecstasy  of  living. 


Letter  Eighty-sixth. 

THURSDAY  EVENING. 

It  is  such  a  joy,  such  a  stimulus  to  talk 
to  you ;  and  you  are  so  generous,  in  all 
you  say  of  others.  This  is  real  majesty. 
Do  you  think  I  do  not  appreciate  it  ? 
I  could  not  now  insult  you  by  the  shadow 
of  a  suspicion.  Ah,  don't  imagine  that 
trust  on  my  part  has  anything  in  com- 
mon with  the  marital  sens,e  of  security, 
which  in  all  ages  has  provoked  derision,  and 
which  is  apt  to  create  carelessness  about  the 
treasure  it  has  obtained.  I  cannot  even  im- 
agine remissness  in  a  real  lover.  He  would 
deserve  to  lose  his  idol.  I  would  never  lose 
mine  from  such  a  cause  as  that. 

I  should  like  to  kiss  your  pretty  hands 
this  minute,  to  let  my  famished  eyes  rest 
upon  your  loveliness.  Ah,  I  wish  that  I 
might  eat  and  drink  of  thee. 


ffIS  LETTERS  229 

Letter  Eighty-seventh. 

I  worried  afterward  over  the  thought 
that  you  might  not  like  my  sending  you 
those  papers  all  tumbled  and  badly  out  of 
shape.  A  man  can  never  feel  certain  that 
some  rough,  careless  act  of  his  may  not 
have  jarred  upon  the  delicate  nerves  and 
senses  of  a  woman.  Ah,  you  send  things 
neatly  folded  and  tied  with  white  silk ! 

How  fortunate  that  you  are.a.femme  art- 
iste, as  well  as  a  great  lady,  that  in  your  art 
you  may  speak  to  the  world.  Why,  you 
can  be  a  blessing  to  mankind  ? 

Perhaps  the  blessing  would  have  been 
more  unmixed  had  the  genius,  in  your  case, 
been  allied  with  less  beauty.  I  have  not 
quite  made  up  my  mind  whether  for  me  in 
particular  it  was  fortunate.  Since  I  have 
known  you  I  have  had  so  much  torment 
and  so  little  rapture.  Last  night  I  could 
not  help  breaking  into  wild,  harsh  laughter 
at  your  injunction  to  sleep  well.  Ah,  be- 
fore I  knew  you,  I  could  do  that,  but  you, 
fair  lady,  have  murdered  sleep. 

Later — When   I   said   I   could  do  better 


23°  tfIS  LETTERS 

than  Ruy  Bias,  I  meant,  of  course,  the  man 
described,  not  Hugo,  the  describer.  There 
are  two  weak  points  in  the  conception  of 
Ruy  Bias,  and  it  is  strange  that  Hugo  did 
not  see  them.  The  lack  of  personal  dig- 
nity, and  the  exhibition*  of  physical  courage 
is  a  little  too  tardy.  As  to  the  dignity,  I 
do  not  refer  to  the  man's  putting  on  a 
lackey's  coat,  and  afterward  consenting  to 
personate  Don  Cesar  de  Bazan.  Both  acts 
were  dignified,  ennobled  by  their  motive. 
They  were  done  that  he  might  be  brought 
near  the  woman  that  he  loved.  But  having 
become  an  equerry,  he  should  have  stopped 
there.  By  becoming  prime  minister,  he 
would  see  less  of  her  rather  than  more.  Be- 
sides, it  was  known  to  him,  and  notorious  to 
everyone,  that  his  sudden  rise  was  due  to 
the  queen.  He  should  have  accepted  from 
her  nothing  smaller  than  herself.  Then 
what  began  like  an  idyl  would  not  have 
been  converted  into  what  looked  like  a  prof- 
itable speculation.  As  for  the  marquis, 
his  life  should  not  have  been  spared  until 
Donna  Maria  was  almost  irreparably  com- 
promised. He  should  have  been  choked  to 


HIS  LETTERS  231 

death  in  that  earlier  scene  where  he  bids 
Ruy  Bias,  now  prime  minister,  shut  a  win- 
dow. But  what,  you  may  ask,  would  have 
become  of  the  play  ?  I  don't  know  and  I 
don't  care.  The  play  might  have  been 
spoiled,  but  Ruy  Bias  would  have  been 
nicer.  Plays  were  made  for  men,  not 
men  for  plays.  And  that  reminds  me  as  to 
the  "  art  for  art "  canon.  I  tried  hard  to 
get  at  that  in  an  essay  upon  art,  which  I 
wrote  at  college,  when  you,  sweet  one,  were 
still  casting  furtive  glances  at  your  dolls. 
I  remember  saying  that  it  was  a  very 
good  formula  for  the  artist,  "art  for  art"; 
and  that  the  lawyers  had  devised  a  like 
one,  "  law  for  law."  But  after  all,  man 
made  art  a  law  for  himself.  He  had  not 
the  slightest  notion  of  fashioning  idols  of 
wood  and  stone,  and  so  I  suggested  that 
perhaps  the  largest,  safest,  and  sound- 
est formula  was  "  art  for  man." 

I  had  hoped  to  get  a  little  line  this  morn- 
ing, with  an  answer  to  the  question  that  I 
whispered  ;  but  there  is  none.  You  are 
angry,  are  you  ?  Oh,  say  you  are  not.  You 
could  not  be  long  angry  with  me,  could  you  ? 


232  HIS  LETTERS 

Do  you  remember  telling  me  once  you 
wished  me  to  do  something  great,  some- 
thing for  humanity  ?  That  touched  me 
deeply ;  but  your  hand  fell  upon  an  open 
wound,  although  it  fell  like  a  snowflake. 
Sometime  I  will  tell  you  of  a  hope  I  once 
had.  But  now  it  is  dead. 

Letter  Eighty-eighth. 

I  am  absolutely  certain  that  not  a  soul 
looked  at  the  bride  to-day.  How  could 
they  when  your  loveliness  was  en  vue  \ 
Doesn't  everybody  notice  that  you  are 
en  beaute1?  I  want  you  to  tell  me  what  is 
said  to ( you,  particularly  by  the  shrewd  and 
observant  women. 

Just  think  of  it ;  I  have  not  had  a  line 
from  you,  and  this  is  my  fourth  letter. 
You  don't  appreciate  me  at  all.  You  don't 
seem  to  realize  that  nobody  else  can  get 
one  letter  out  of  me.  Well,  I  am  justly 
punished  for  my  discourtesy  to  others. 
Now  I  know  what  it  means  and  how  it 
feels  to  write  four  letters  to  another's  one. 
I  am  becoming  compassionate. 

If  you  had  not  given  me  that  fragrant 


HIS  LETTERS  233 

little  bit  of  ribbon,  I  don't  know  what  I 
should  have  done.  How  lucky  it  is 
for  me  that  you  are  wise  as  well  as 
beautiful ! 

I  have  been  thinking  since  I  saw  you 
last,  of  the  impression  you  made  upon  me 
when  I  saw  you  at  your  house,  in  January. 
Of  course  you  were  a  splendid,  stately 
creature,  in  the  very  prime  of  your  beauty, 
but  you  were  cold  and  indifferent.  How 
indeed  could  you  be  otherwise  ?  I  said  to 
myself  :  would  she  have  been  different  if 
she  had  let  me  see  her  earlier  ?  .  .  .  And 
then  I  asked  myself :  I  wonder  if  this  gor- 
geous woman  has  ever  loved,  really  loved  ? 
She  could  love  ;  that  is  evident  in  every  line 
of  her  figure,  in  her  lips  and  in  her  eyes ; 
but  has  she  ?  And  then  I  cursed  myself, 
for  I  felt  that  I  should  never  please  you. 
I  was  but  too  painfully  conscious  that  I  did 
not  please  you  then.  Never  in  my  life  did 
I  feel  such  self-contempt  and  hopelessness 
as  when  I  came  down  your  stair.  But 
once  ensconced  safely  in  my  cab,  a  strange 
reaction  came.  All  at  once  the  thought 
swept  over  me  that,  after  all,  I  was  a  man 


234  HIS  LETTERS 

and  you  were  a  woman  ;  and  that  to  lose 
the  first  heat  did  not  necessarily  mean  the 
loss  of  the  race.  And  then  my  pride  and 
my  virility  came  back  to  me,  and  I  swore, 
swore  the  oath  that  I  would  tame  that 
superb  creature,  and  make  her  care  for  me. 
It  was  as  if  some  spirit  had  breathed  in  my 
ear  what  Don  Salluste  whispers  to  Ruy 
Bias,  at  the  end  of  the  first  act  of  the 
drama. 

I  measured  the  difficulties  to  be  sur- 
mounted ;  I  saw  plainly  that  your  first  im- 
pressions would  be  against  me.  But  I 
remembered  also  what  the  Duchess  of 
Devonshire  said  of  John  Wilkes — that  the 
handsomest  man  in  London  had  but  five 
minutes'  start  of  him.  Yes,  I  had  got  off 
very  badly  ;  but  in  a  long  race,  wind  and 
limb  might  tell.  Ah,  this  was  a  feature  of 
the  romance  that  you  know  not,  though  I 
always  meant  to  tell  you. 

Letter  Eighty-ninth. 

...  I  roamed  about  the  sidewalks  over- 
looking D's.  for  hours,  like  the  peri  shut 
out  from  the  gates  of  paradise,  wishful  of 


HIS  LETTERS  235 

one    last     glimpse.        Do   you     remember 
Thackeray's 

Outside  the  porch  sometimes  I  linger? 

Alas,  there  was  no  glimpse  for  me,  and 
I  chided  myself  for  doing  what  perhaps 
would  have  displeased  you.  Are  you  dis- 
pleased ? 

Heavens !  how  I  want  to  see  you  to- 
morrow, in  the  white  gown  and  hat !  You 
will  be  a  tearing  belle,  but  that  you  always 
are.  I  should  like  to  see  the  expression  in 
your  eyes  during  the  marriage  service.  I 
wish  that  at  a  certain  moment  my  eyes 
could  encounter  yours.  There  would  be 
tears  in  mine.  But  there,  let  me  not  sigh 
for  the  moon.  You  will,  at  all  events,  some 
time  let  me  see  you  in  your  bravery  ;  yes,  I 
count  on  that.  Dearest,  don't  flirt !  But 
if  you  really  cannot  help  it,  entouree  as  you 
will  be,  be  general,  I  beg  of  you,  in  your 
distribution  of  sweet  looks  and  fetching 
ways.  I  know  you  will  dance,  and  I  hate 
the  men  who  will  be  privileged  to  touch 
your  hand.  What  right  have  they  to  touch 
it?  It  is  not  theirs,  it  is  not  theirs. 


236  HIS  LETTERS 

• 

Letter  Ninetieth. 

...  It  is  incredible  how  much  I  care 
for  your  respect.  Would  to  God  that  I 
were  more  worthy  of  your  ennobling  influ- 
ence. Yes,  dearest,  it  is  not  your  fault 
you  cannot  do  for  me  what  the  goddesses 
did  for  their  mortal  lovers — make  me  a 
demigod. 

I  glanced,  on  Sunday,  at  what  S. 
writes  about  naturalism  in  art.  His 
notions  seem  correct  enough,  but  they 
flash  in  the  pan.  Nobody  will  read  him. 
He  is  dull ;  he  infects  nobody.  He  does 
not  evince  the  gift  of  startling  the  mind, 
firing  curiosity  and  riveting  attention.  Oh, 
to-day,  besides  the  lost  letter,  there  was 
another  lovely  missive  from  thee.  You 
know  how  to  bless  as  well  as  rule  ;  it  is  the 
prerogative  of  goddesses.  How  ashamed  I 
felt  at  my  vexation  of  last  Friday,  when  I 
imagined  myself  to  be  ill-used.  Yes,  you 
say  truly  that  there  was  a  time  when  I 
would  gladly  have  written  ten  letters  for 
a  word  from  you  ;  whereas  now  I  hold 
myself  cheated  if  I  don't  get  one  for  one. 


HIS  LETTERS  237 

» 

Does  that  prove  that  I  love  you  less  or 
more  ?  I  think  the  difference  is  simply 
an  indelible  mark  of  a  difference  in  the 
stage  of  love.  It  is  certain  that  for  a 
single  indulgent  glance,  Ruy  Bias  would 
twenty  times  have  scaled  the  spike-topped 
fence  of  the  queen's  garden,  to  lay  upon 
the  bench  a  flower  that  recalled  to  her  the 
fields  of  Neuberg.  It  is  no  less  certain 
that  when  his  idol  had  confessed  she  cared 
for  him,  he  wanted  far  more,  and  claimed 
it.  Do  you  not  suppose  that  she  expected 
it,  and  would  have  been  surprised  had  he 
been  less  exacting  and  less  clamorous  ?  I 
know  not.  Do  you — you  resolve  this  prob- 
lem in  the  deep  lore  of  love  ?  I  am  sure 
that  it  must  have  been  many  times  debated 
in  the  Parlements  d' Amour  at  Aix  and  at 
Toulouse.  Ah,  dearest,  you  seem  to  repro- 
duce those  ardent  and  voluptuous  days.  I 
write  in  prose,  but  the  thought  of  your  sur- 
passing loveliness  of  which  I  dream,  of  all 
the  beauty  which  exists  from  your  love-lit 
eyes  to  your  rosy  heel,  ought  to  lend  to 
prose  the  music  and  the  flame  of  song. 
Ah,  sweet  one,  do  I  "suit"  you?  It  is 


238  HIS  LETTERS 

ecstasy  to  hear  you  say  it.  I  love,  I  wor- 
ship thee,  with  every  upward  soaring  of  my 
soul  ! 

Letter   Ninety-first. 

SUNDAY  MORNING. 

Even  you  cannot  imagine  what  a  joy  it  is 
to  me  to  know  that  you  like  the  subject  for 
a  picture  on  which  you  are  now  engaged. 
If  that  alone  should  fail,  it  would  be  due  to 
the  refractory  material,  and  I  should  only 
adore  you  more  for  thinking  better  of  it 
than  it  deserves.  What  you  are  really 
doing  is  to  tell  over  again  the  story  of  Endy- 
mion  in  modern  guise.  Aye,  I  was  well 
inspired  when  I  divined  you  to  be  Artemis. 
Her  history  is  indeed  thine.  In  that  love- 
liest of  Greek  myths,  however,  there  is  one 
thing  that  is  hard  to  understand  :  That  the 
goddess,  when  she  stooped  to  look  kindly 
on  a  mortal,  would  be  irresistible  is  plain 
enough  ;  but  what  drew  her  to  Endymion  ? 
He  was  only  a  shepherd  on  Mount  Latmos. 
Was  it  because,  with  her  celestial  intuition, 
she  saw  that  he  alone  of  mortals  had  divined 
her  ?  It  would  seem  that  even  a  goddess 


HIS  LETTERS  239 

may  well  wish  to  be  understood.  To  the 
dwellers  on  the  cold  heights  of  Olympus 
the  bliss  of  sympathy  had  been  denied. 
That  is  why  so  many  of  them  were  tempted 
to  prefer  the  warmer  earth  to  heaven.  .  . 

How  little  confidence  have  observing  men 
in  the  perfect  refinement  of  women,  even 
when  they  have  had  consummate  advantages 
of  birth  and  breeding ;  and  how  much  less 
when  their  position  may  be  largely  due  to 
accident !  This  even  from  the  physical  view- 
point ;  and  how  much  less  likely  is  a  lover 
to  discover  in  his  beloved  a  flawless  refine- 
ment of  the  intellect,  the  heart,  the  soul. 
Nay,  there  is  but  one  such  living,  and  he 
that  pens  this  word  is  her  adorer.  Alas  !  a 
hopeless  adorer,  neglecting  his  sheep  upon 
the  slopes  of  Latmos,  and  straining  his  eyes 
skyward  for  the  advent  of  Luna  and  her 
silver  bow.  Will  he  never  then  be  allowed 
to  hope  ?  Perhaps,  some  evening,  when 
the  earth  is  bathed  in  silver  radiance,  and 
the  air  is  cool  with  the  first  breath  of  autumn, 
and  he,  poor  watcher,  has  dropped  asleep, 
worn  out  with  invoking  the  vision  that 
comes  never,  he  may  feel  a  soft,  warm  touch 


240  ffIS  LETTERS 

upon  his  hand,  and  awake  to  find  himself  in 
paradise.  Surely  such  a  hope  need  not  be 
all  a  dream.  When  I  think  of  all  that  has 
happened  since,  a  year  ago,  a  lovely  lady 
traced  upon  a  card  some  words  that  you 
remember  ;  when  I  think  of  this,  my  faith 
in  the  future  is  quite  boundless. 

Do  not  chill  it.  Let  me  keep  it  to  live 
upon  while  you  are  gone. 

YOUR  SLAVE. 

Letter  Ninety-second. 

I  live  in  dread  of  some  portentous  inci- 
dent, some  sinister  reaction  in  your  mind, 
that  shall  have  the  most  direct  and  dread- 
ful bearing  on  my  own  fate.  Oh,  shall  you 
do  this  thing,  shall  you  cast  me  off  ?  Can 
you  not  bear  with  me  one  hour  ?  Shall  you 
deny  me  a  moment's  happy  dreaming  be- 
tween a  sleep  and  a  sleep  ?  It  may  be  that 
this  presentiment  is  groundless,  but  it  haunts 
me.  Did  you  ever  see  a  man  weep  ?  It  is 
a  repulsive  sight.  I  am  glad  you  did  not 
see  me,  last  night,  as  I  remembered  what 
you  had  just  told  me,  that  you  were  not  so 
far  from  me  but  that  I  might  have  seen  you 


HIS  LETTERS  241 

that  detestable  summer.  O  God !  can  a 
man  be  so  blind  as  that  ?  The  thought  of 
it  makes  one  curse  his  Maker.  But  then 
...  I  have  seen  you  at  last. 

We  needs  must  love  the  highest  when  we 
see  it.  Thou  art  the  highest  and  most 
human  too. 

Letter  Ninety -third. 

I  wonder  how  much  you  care  for  me. 
All  day  and  all  night  I  ask  myself  that 
question,  for  my  dreams  even  are  preoc- 
cupied. I  always  fall  back  on  the  con- 
clusion that  your  feeling,  whatever  it  be,  is 
not  a  hundreth  part  so  deep  and  intense 
as  mine.  It  cannot  be;  it  is  impossible! 
There  are  reasons  why  it  cannot.  But  I 
would  rather  have  it,  pale  as  it  sometimes 
seems  to  me,  than  all  the  ardor  of  the  love- 
liest woman  I  ever  saw  before  or  heard  of. 
So  I  am  happy  after  a  fashion,  happier,  far 
happier  than  I  ever  was  before. 

But  what  do  you  mean  about  that  man 
T.  ?  Of  course  I  know  him  very  well,  and 
he  has  cause  to  be  glad  I  do.  But  if  you 
believe  that  I  could  allow  any  man  living  to 


24*  tffS  LETTERS 

speak  your  name  to  me,  I  could  not  see  you 
again  ;  for  such  distrust  I  could  not  bear. 
You  must  expect  to  hear  things.  Everyone 
does.  The  only  question  of  importance  is 
what  you  believe. 

Now  I  have  written  six  letters  to  two  from 
you,  but  one  of  yours  is  worth  a  dozen  of 
mine.  I  used  not  to  count  in  that  way.  I 
used  to  think  that  a  word  from  me  was 
worth  a  hundred  from  another — I  mean 
men — I  never  wrote  to  a  person  of  your 
sex.  But  now  it  is  quite  different.  I  am 
thankful  for  what  I  can  get.  And  what  a 
letter  I  did  get  this  morning  !  Oh,  my  be- 
loved, I  can  never  burn  it !  Ah,  let  me 
keep  this  one  ;  it  will  tear  me  to  burn  it ! 

Only  this  morning,  as  I  was  reading  at 
an  open  window,  a  poor  creature,  trying 
to  earn  bread  honestly,  came  and  shouted 
something  about  "knives  to  mend."  I  was 
chasing  a  reluctant  thought,  and  in  my  irri- 
tation bade  him  crossly  to  go  away.  And 
then  in  an  instant  the  thought?  came  to  me, 
"  Oh,  if  she  had  heard  me,  her  lovely,  tender 
lips  might  quiver ! "  and  the  tears  came  to 
my  eyes,  and  I  went  to  the  window,  and 


&IS  LETTERS  243 

called  the  man  back,  and  gave  him  some- 
thing. It  is  always  thus  now.  You  see  you 
are  making  me  quite  too  good  for  this 
earth  !  Everybody  can  get  anything  from 
me  they  wish  now,  and  I  shall  soon  be  a 
pauper. 

About  Cleopatra ;  I  should  want  the 
strongest  evidence  to  convince  me  that  the 
coin  you  saw  bore  the  face  of  the  Cleo- 
patra— our  Cleopatra — she  that  in  her  girl- 
hood detained  the  great  Julius  a  year  in 
Alexandria,  at  the  very  crisis  of  his  fate,  and 
afterward  made  the  world  seem  well  lost  to 
Antony.  G.'s  scholarship  was  picked  up 
piecemeal,  late  in  life,  and  had  large  gaps  in 
it.  As  a  matter  of  fact,  Cleopatra  was  a 
common  name  in  the  Ptolemaic  family. 
Half  a  dozen  princesses  of  that  name  had 
coins  struck  in  their  honor.  That  mummy, 
by  the  way,  which  was  found,  and  from 
which  such  injurious  deductions  were  drawn, 
was  not  her  mummy,  but  another  Cleo- 
patra's. We  know  from  contemporary  evi- 
dence a  lot  about  the  famous  beauty.  She 
did  not  have  a  big  nose  or  thick  lips,  but 
was  of  the  purest  Greek  type. 


244  ffIS  LETTERS 

Do  I  like  long-nosed  women  ?  Of  course 
not.  Such  a  feature  may  go  well  enough 
with  beauty  of  a  forbidding  type,  but  what 
artist  or  what  lover  would  ascribe  it  to  the 
goddess  of  desire  ? 

As  to  the  Jewish  type,  it  suited  Jael  or 
Judith,  but  the  fate  of  Holofernes  would 
never  have  befallen  me,  for  I  would  never 
have  gone  to  sleep  in  the  tent  of  that  hand- 
some but  sinister  daughter  of  Israel. 

Do  you  want  to  know  what  kind  of  nose 
I  like  best  and  dream  of  ?  Run  straight  to 
your  mirror  ;  there  it  is  ! 

Letter  Ninety-fourth. 

MY  SWEET  DARLING: 

I  like  parts  of  your  second  letter,  but  I 
loved  the  whole  of  the  first,  which  was 
a  beautiful  and  noble  and  delicious  letter. 
It  struck  me  in  a  hundred  places  at  once. 
Ah,  it  is  wonderful  how  every  part  of  my 
nature  answers  to  your  touch,  and  that  one 
who  can  rouse  such  passionate  madness 
can,  also,  in  a  thousand  ways,  invigorate  and 
elevate.  Oh,  this  is  love  indeed,  this  aston- 
ishing emotion  that  masters  the  whole  being 


HIS  LETTERS  ^45 

and  makes  you  in  one  and  the  same  instant 
want  the  beloved  one  and  worship  her ! 
Incredible  combination  of  desire  and  of 
reverence  !  One  tear  of  yours  kills  me  with 
sadness.  One  touch  of  your  hand  thrills 
me  with  an  ecstasy  that  makes  me  yearn 
to  live  forever.  Yet  I  sometimes  think 
that  with  such  power  as  you  possess  over 
me,  you  should  be  more  merciful.  Why 
do  you  taunt  me  with  what  you  have  taught 
me  to  repent  of?  Why  are  you  harsher 
than  God  ?  By  Heaven,  I  am  sorry  from 
my  soul  that  I  ever  looked  at  a  human 
being  before  I  saw  you.  I  don't  mean  to 
call  myself  a  saint,  though  you  know  how 
St.  Augustine  and  St.  Ignatius  Loyola  lived 
in  their  youth.  Yet  I  do  mean  that  since  I 
have  loved  you  I  am  just  that.  If  to  you 
alone  I  seem  not  always  saintlike,  it  is  be- 
cause a  Platonic  attachment  between  a  man 
and  a  woman  seems  to  me  impossible.  But 
do  you  imagine  I  fancied  my  princess  to  be 
like  the  women  whom  the  decayed  Parisian 
cads  imagine  to  be  ladies  ?  Do  you  imagine 
me  to  be  like  the  men  whom  the  same 
writers  depict  as  gentlemen  ?  They  are  very 


246  HIS  LETTERS 

clever,  these  writers.  No  one  appreciates 
their  cleverness  more  than  I  ;  but  it  takes 
more  than  cleverness  to  be  or  to  understand 
a  gentleman.  Ah,  well,  darling1,  never  tor- 
ture me  again  !  Compared  with  St.  Augus- 
tine's my  life  has  been  as  white  as  snow ; 
and  since  I  have  known  you  there  is  no 
better  man  alive  than  I.  No,  I  could  not 
understand  Browning's  remembering  that 
early  love  so  long.  He  could  not  have 
loved  Miss  Barrett  so  much  as  he  thought, 
and  remembered  that.  To  me  the  whole 
past  is  a  blank ;  I  seem  only  to  have  lived 
since  I  loved  you,  my  love,  my  precious 
one,  my  treasure  ! 

I  am  going  down  to  the  sea ;  I  want  to 
sit  where  I  can  see  the  ocean  and  hear  some 
music,  and  think  of  my  beloved.  It  would 

kill  me  to  lose  you  now  !     Good-by. 

• 
Letter  Ninety-fifth. 

I  came  down  here  last  night,  at  nine 
o'clock,  so  that  I  might  meet  no  one.  I 
have  had  my  breakfast  and  dinner  sent  up 
to  my  room,  and  here  I  have  sat,  sometimes 
hearing  some  music,  and  always  looking  out 


HIS  LETTERS  247 

upon  the  water,  thinking,  thinking  of  whom 
do  you  suppose  ?  After  I  leave  you  I  must 
steep  myself  in  nature.  I  think  I  told  you 
that  after  leaving  you  the  other  day,  I  had 
myself  taken  up  the  river.  Well,  in  passing 
through  the  park,  a  man  whom  I  knew 
stopped  me  and  asked  me  where  I  was  go- 
ing. I  was  sunk  in  a  deep  reverie,  I  had  no 
wits  about  me,  and  I  stammered  that  I  was 
going  to  dine  at  the  riverside.  He  at  once 
proposed  to  go  with  me,  and  so  out  of  my 
mind  was  I — whose  fault  was  it,  dear  ? — that 
I  could  make  no  objection.  How  I  hated 
that  man,  loathed  the  drive  and  dinner  that 
followed  !  At  long  intervals  he  would  say, 
"  You  haven't  spoken  a  word  in  ten  minutes, 
I  am  afraid  I  bore  you."  Then,  after 
another  pause,  "  Really  I  begin  to  think 
that  my  room  would  be  better  than  my 
company  !  "  And  I  wanted  to  be  alone,  as 
I  am  here,  to-night ;  for  I  would  rather 
crush  my  lips  against  your  lovely  foot-prints 
in  the  sand,  than  be  myself  the  idol  of  any 
other  woman  on  the  earth. 


248  HIS  LETTERS 

Letter  Ninety-sixth. 

I  got  your  telegram  ;  it  went  straight  to 
my  heart.  Ah,  I  begin  to  think  that  you 
believe  I  love  you  as  you  ought  to  be 
loved ! 

Yes,  I  was  sad  when  I  first  saw  you  ;  my 
heart  was  very  heavy.  I  doubted — I 
doubted — you  see,  my  darling — now  I  am 
going  to  tell  you — you  are  so  much  younger 
than  I — how  I  curse  fate  that  I  did  not  see 
you  earlier!  I  will  never  speak  of  this 
again  ;  I  could  not.  I  think  that  you  do 
care  for  me  a  little ;  how  much,  how  much  I 
know  not.  But  I  know  that  your  presence 
is  like  the  sunshine,  and  that  hope  and  joy 
bloom  in  it.  Only  with  you  do  I  feel — I 
don't  mean  with  you,  but  away  from  you— 
that  dreadful  sinking  of  the  heart.  I  know 
not  how  it  is,  but  I  seem  able  to  make  other 
women  as  young  as  you,  beloved,  forget 
that  I  am  older  than  they.  But  with  you  I 
have  dark  misgivings. 

There,  I  have  unbosomed  my  heart. 
Don't  ever  speak  of  this  ;  I  could  not  bear 
it.  For,  alas  !  a  man  cannot  add  a  cubit  to 


HIS  LETTERS  249 

his  stature,  nor  subtract  a  decade  from  his 
age.  You  are  in  the  most  splendid  bloom 
of  youth.  I  almost  wish  that  you  were  not. 
And  yet  it  would  be  wicked  to  wish  to  mar 
such  a  perfect  masterpiece  of  nature  and  of 
training.  I  almost  wish  I  had  not  said  this. 
Don't  ever  remind  me  of  it.  Never  would 
I  forgive  you.  I  am  too  proud,  I  think,  for 
my  own  good.  I  cannot  write  any  more 
now ;  I  feel  depressed.  I  sometimes  wish 
that  I  were  dead.  But  while  I  live  my 
whole  heart  is  yours,  if  you  care  for  it. 
Adieu  ! 

Letter  Ninety-seventh. 

I  said  that  I  looked  back  on  Q.  as  on  the 
loveliest  corner  of  the  earth.  There  are 
other  places  de  par  le  monde  where  every- 
thing bears  the  cachet  of  exquisite  taste  ; 
but  what  other  place  is  pervaded  with  the 
subtle  fascinations  of  such  a  peerless,  re- 
sistless personality  ?  It  is  because  all 
is  radiant  and  redolent  of  its  sweet 
mistress,  that  every  man  sensitively  organ- 
ized must  inhale  its  atmosphere  with  the 
keenest  delight. 


250  HIS  LETTERS 

Ah,  when  shall  I  forget  our  walk  upon 
the  shore,  and  the  prints  of  your  slender 
feet  upon  the  white  sand  ?  I  stooped  arid 
kissed  them  ;  and  the  stroll  through  the 
sighing  woods,  and  the  drives  through  the 
lonely  lanes — what  memories !  Do  you 
know,  I  have  always  had  my  share  of  pride 
— without  any  solid  reason — but  of  late  I 
have  had  a  tremendous  accession  of  that 
feeling  since  I  have  heard  that  a  brilliant 
and  lovely  lady  considered  me  a  clever 
man,  and  had  even  let  it  be  understood 
that  she  thought  me  rather  nice  than  other- 
wise. Ah,  that,  if  I  were  an  emperor, 
would  make  me  feel  myself  more  imperial. 

What  a  charming  nook  that  was  in  your 
drawing  room,  where  we  sat,  one  evening, 
among  the  cool  shadows  !  Ah,  would  that 
I  might  be  privileged  to  make  my  vows 
there,  though  their  temperature  would  ill 
befit  the  place  ! 

What  a  little  world  this  is,  as  we  were 
saying !  I  found  in  my  letter-box  a  letter 
from  W.  It  seems  that  there  is  there 
a  nest  of  your  enemies;  the  only  enemies 
that  so  sweet  a  woman  could  have — those 


HIS  LETTERS  251 

engendered  by  sheer  envy.  Mrs. man- 
ages to  secrete  more  than  her  fair  share 
of  venom.  She  has  tried  to  do  you  harm. 

Ah,  when  shall  I  see  thee,  lovely  one, 
again  ?  the  sweetest,  most  generous,  most 
forgiving,  elevating,  and  inspiring  creature 
that  is  drawing  vital  air. 

Ah,  I  pine  for  the  sight  of  her  handwrit- 
ing, since  I  cannot  see  the  face  that  is  so 
dear  to  me. 

Au  revoir,  ma  bien  aime'e  ! 

Letter  Ninety-eighth. 

You  say  that  you  believe  women  to  be 
more  charming  now  than  they  ever  were. 
That  may  be,  but  the  stage  setting  is  not  so 
rare.  A  really  great  lady  like  yourself,  for 
instance,  would  have  had  a  much  nicer  time 
in  Rome,  about  the  year  50  of  our  era. 
What  luxury,  what  magnificence,  what  ex- 
quisite refinement,  what  artistic  embellish- 
ment and  intensifying  of  life  !  Ah,  yes  ;  you 
should  have  lived  when  with  your  walk,  or 
with  your  faint,  mysterious  smile,  you  would 
have  made  those  superb  Roman  women  de- 
sire to  poison  you,  and  thus  remove  you 


252  HIS  LETTERS 

from  their  path.  By  the  way,  you  know 
that  lovely  bust  that  the  ignorant  call  a 
bust  of  Clytie,  and  imagine  to  be  an  ideal 
head  and  bosom  ?  Well,  there  is  scarcely 
any  doubt  that  it  is  a  portrait  bust — the 
portrait  of  Poppsea  Sabina,  as  she  looked 
when  Nero  took  her  away  from  Otho. 
There  is  about  her  lips  and  chin  the  same 
extraordinary  and  haunting  combination  of 
unslaked  curiosity  and  passion  which  is 
so  strongly  suggested  upon  your  lips.  I 
wonder  if  you  can  detest  traveling  by  rail 
as  much  as  I  do.  To  me  it  seems  the  quin- 
tessence of  our  nineteenth  century  vul- 
garity, our  sham  civilization.  Oh,  what 
a  funny  thing  our  vaunted  progress  must 
seem  to  an  on-looker  from  an  elder  planet, 
Mars,  for  instance !  We  have  harnessed 
the  lightning  mainly  for  the  purpose  of  en- 
abling a  stock  gambler  to  signal  his  con- 
federate ;  and  we  have  coerced  the  genii  of 
steam  to  permit  a  commercial  traveler,  with 
his  little  box  of  samples,  to  go  from  New 
York  to  San  Francisco  in  five  days.  It 
took  five  weeks  for  a  trireme  to  carry  a  play 
of  Euripides,  or  a  dialogue  of  Plato,  from 


HIS  LETTERS  253 

Athens  to  Syracuse  ;  but  when  it  got  there 
it  stayed.  Oh,  yes,  it  stayed,  and  has  out- 
lasted the  Roman  roads  that  seemed  im- 
perishable ;  and  it  will  outlive  our  railways 
of  which  we  are  so  proud. 

Ah,  go  on  !  Have  courage,  do  better,  bet- 
ter, nobler  and  nobler  work  ;  work  that  men 
and  women  will  never  allow  to  die.  You 
can  do  it,  you  will  do  it,  you  shall  do  it — a 
trophy  worthy  of  the  lovely  hand  that  reared 
it! 

Letter  Ninety-ninth. 

Heavens,  how  I  love  you  !  Do  you  real- 
ize what  it  means  to  absorb  a  man's  heart  as 
you  have  mine  ?  And  now  you  have  written 
me  a  second  letter,  when  you  could  not 
have  yet  received  my  first.  How  am  I  to 
repay  this  ?  I  will  consecrate  to  you  whole 
years  of  worship — years  unexpected  that  I 
will  wrest  from  death. 

Of  course  common  people  sneer  at  Z.,  and 
particularly  at  an  act  which  their  spiritual 
atrophy  and  cowardice  could  not  imitate. 
But  you  and  I  can  pity  and  understand  him. 

I  have  sent   you   to-day   the   biography 


254  HIS  LETTERS 

which  you  asked  for.  It  is  indispensable,  if 
we  agree  with  Sainte-Beuve,  that  we  must 
be  acquainted  with  an  author's  life  if  we 
wish  to  understand  his  books.  The  purport 
of  Ibsen's  biography  may  be  summed  up  in 
a  sentence:  so  far  as  the  "dramas  of  the 
day "  are  concerned,  Ibsen  has  presented 
on  the  stage,  and  under  the  conditions  of 
dramatic  art,  very  much  the  same  view  of 
foreign  society,  and  the  principles  which 
actuate  it,  which  Tolstoi  didactically  sets 
forth  in  "  My  Religion."  Voilh,  tout. 

Ah,  dearest,  the  miniature !  the  minia- 
ture !  thank  God  that  you  remembered  it ; 
it  will  make  all  the  difference  in  the  world  to 
me.  How  could  a  photograph  render  you 
who  should  be  painted  ?  Don't  you  see 
that  I  love  you,  love  you  as  only  men  love 
once  in  a  hundred  years,  and  that  I  must 
have  something  which  has  life  and  color  to 
gaze  upon  in  the  long  vigils  of  the  night. 
Ah,  yes ;  and  you  say,  my  beloved,  you  are 
going  to  bless  me  with  the  gift. 

Letter  One  Hundredth. 
Thank  God  that  you  did  not   send  me 


ffIS  LETTERS  255 

that  first  long  letter  of  which  you  speak.  I 
know  that  it  would  have  killed  me.  Ah, 
yes ;  that  is  no  conventional  phrase ;  it 
would  be  easy  for  you  to  kill  me.  All  you 
would  have  to  do  would  be  to  be  silent ; 
that  would  take  away  the  wish  to  live,  and 
when  that  is  gone  some  live  not  long.  But 
you  will  not  do  what  would  be  so  easy;  will 
you,  dear  ?  You  will  spare  me  yet  a  little 
while.  Say  you  will,  say  that  you  will 
write,  so  that  I  may  find  a  word  from  you 
when  I  return  from  this  long  unhappy 
journey.  What  is  there  that  you  wish 
which  I  would  not  do  ?  Why,  I  would  not 
even  ask  to  see  you  if  you  should  say  that 
you  did  not  wish  it  ;  but  for  God's  sake,  for 
my  sake,  if  you  even  care  for  me  a  little, 
don't  say  that,  anything  but  that !  You  will 
not,  will  you  ?  Say  you  will  not,  queen  of 
my  soul.  Oh,  let  me  thank  you  again  for 
not  sending  me  the  first  long  letter.  I  can 
guess  what  it  contained,  because  my  soul  is 
not  utterly  unworthy  of  your  own.  I  can 
guess,  but  you  could  never  guess,  what  the 
effect  of  such  a  latter  would  have  been  on 
me.  I  could  not  have  borne  it.  I  should 


256  ms  LETTERS 


have  loved*  you  to  distraction  all  the  same, 
but  I  should  have  hated  and  loathed  myself, 
and  under  such  conditions  I  could  not  exist. 
But  you  were  merciful  —  -yes,  you  are  merci- 
ful. From  the  first  I  knew  you  to  be  the 
sweetest  woman  in  the  world.  You  are  not 
a  tigress,  you  are  an  angel  ;  the  only  angel 
that  ever  gave  wings  to  me.  I  am  always 
on  my  knees  to  you.  You  know  it,  and  the 
angel  held  you  from  dealing  me  a  deadly 
blow.  Don't  ever  want  to  kill  me  again. 
If  you  do,  I  shall  know  it  in  some  strange, 
subtle  way,  and  you  will  not  need  to  speak. 

Letter  One  Hundred  and  First. 

I  have  this  moment  returned,  having 
again  traveled  all  night,  in  order  to  be  at 
least  near  you  a  few  hours  earlier.  You 
need  not  change  the  address  of  those  dar- 
ling letters  until  next  Monday.  Oh,  dear- 
est, I  am  almost  dead  with  yearning. 
There  has  not  been  a  second  of  my  waking 
hours  in  which  I  have  not  thought  of  you, 
and  of  sleep  I  have  had  indeed  but  little. 
The  visions  that  rise  before  me  when  the 
lights  have  been  put  out  are  not  by  any 


HIS  LETTERS  257 

means  conducive  to  slumber.  Strange  to 
say,  most  of  these  scenes  seem  to  be  en- 
acted upon  an  island — some  enchanted 
island  of  the  ./Egean,  like  that  to  which  the 
prudent  Thetis  bore  Achilles  dressed  in 
girl's  clothes — a  visitant  whose  perform- 
ances are  said  to  have  been  regarded  as 
scandalous  and  shocking  by  the  feminine 
on-lookers  of  a  certain  age  ;  though  it  is 
not  recorded  that  the  handsome  married 
women  joined  in  the  outcry. 

Alas,  my  head  is  full  of  islands  and  their 
intoxicating  incidents  ! 

You,  on  the  other  hand,  my  princess, 
never  deign  to  give  me  a  single  thought. 

Well,  yes,  perhaps  one  thought  on  Friday ; 
for  the  letter  which  you  received  that  morn- 
ing would  have  warmed  a  stone.  But  why 
should  you  trouble  yourself  to  think  much 
more  of  one  you  have  so  utterly  subdued  ? 
What  is  the  use  of  revanquishing  the  van- 
quished ?  You  have  stamped  with  your 
little  foot  on  my  neck,  the  physical,  tangi- 
ble, decisive  proof  of  mastery  that  not  one 
woman  in  five  hundred  million  gets.  Yes, 
and  you  get  it  for  nothing.  Well  no,  not 


258  HIS  LETTERS 

quite  that,  but  only  for  the  small  change  of 
love. 

If  you  don't  tell  me,  immediately  after  re- 
ceiving this,  that  I  may  see  you  this  after- 
noon or  evening,  I  will  do  something 
desperate.  I  will  go  back  from  whence  I 
came ;  I  could  not  do  anything  more  des- 
perate than  that. 

If  you  had  for  me  a  hundredth  part  of  the 
mad  desire  and  longing  that  I  have  for  you, 
you  would  have  flown  to  me,  and  we  would 
have  met  somewhere  in  mid-air.  I  simply 
shall  not  begin  to  breathe  till  I  see  your 
handwriting,  and  know  that  I  am  to  look 
upon  your  face  to-day. 

Letter  One  Hundred  and  Second. 

I  revere,  I  worship  you.  I  have  never 
loved  you  as  I  do  to-night.  If  anyone  had 
told  me  this  morning  that  within  twelve  hours 
I  should  adore  you  ten  times  more  than 
I  did  then,  I  should  have  laughed  at  him, 
for  it  would  have  seemed  impossible.  Yet 
it  is  true.  The  oftener  I  see  you  the  more 
ineffable  becomes  the  tenderness  with  which 
I  think  of  you,  and  the  more  fierce  and 


HIS  LETTERS  259 

quenchless  is  my  thirst  for  you.  Nor  is  it 
for  one  second  to  earth  that  my  passion  for 
you  draws  me  ;  it  is  upward.  In  my  dreams 
it  is  to  the  heights  you  beckon  me,  and  it  is 
there  that  you  fall  into  my  arms.  Do  you 
know,  beloved,  that  at  certain  moments  to- 
day, your  face  was  illuminated  like  that  of 
no  mortal.  You  cannot  be  an  earthly 
woman.  Heavens,  what  a  sight  entrancing 
your  sweet  face,  when  love  shines  through 
it !  The  very  greatest  of  the  singers,  Dante, 
has  imagined  it,  but  never  saw  it,  never  saw 
what  I  have  seen  at  last.  Ah,  you  are  the 
ideal  sweetheart.  You  satisfy  every  thought, 
taste,  impulse,  inspiration.  You  act  upon 
your  lover  like  some  strange  chemic  heat 
that  brings  out  all  his  capacities.  Oh,  you 
are  indeed  a  splendid  creature,  as  well  as 
the  most  delicious  little  piece  of  femininity. 
How  sweetly  womanly  you  are  !  You  can- 
not guess  how  soft  your  eyes  are  sometimes  ; 
they  melt,  yes  they  would  melt  a  stone,  and 
God  knows  I  am  no  stone  to  you  !  And 
your  shyness  is  so  fascinating  ! 


Letter  One  Hundred  and  Third. 

On  my  way  I  seized  your  delicious  letter, 
and  have  been  devouring  it  ever  since.  Ah, 
if  you  loved  me  I  could  defy  fortune,  des- 
tiny, God  himself  to  harm  me.  Does  that 
seem  blasphemous?  Oh,  no;  it  is  the  rec- 
ognition of  his  best  gift  to  man. 

I  have  had  some  annoyances.  There  is 
a  state  of  increasing  moral  tension  about 
me  ;  my  enemies  have  been  at  work,  but 
the  sight  of  your  dear  handwriting  whirled 
all  out  of  consciousness  forever.  If  your 
hand  can  do  that,  what  cannot  your  face  do  ? 

I  foresaw  that  you  would  not  let  me  see 
you  Friday  in  your  boudoir.  Ah,  yes,  I 
am  beginning  to  understand  you  a  little, 
only  a  little.  I  never  could  fathom  you 
utterly,  but  I  am  beginning  to  learn  some 
of  your  pretty  ways — ah,  they  are  pretty  ! 

I  am  fidelity  itself  and  passion  inexhaust- 
ible, although  at  first  so  prejudiced  you 
were  it  is  hard  for  you  to  believe  it.  But 
you  will  see.  Give  me  a  chance  to  show  it. 
My  God,  how  could  a  man  that  you  have 
been  kind  to  look  at  any  other  woman  ? 


His  LETTERS  261 

I  have  thought  much  of  our  last  conver- 
sation. With  what  touching  sincerity  and 
infectious  poignancy  you  speak  of  grief ! 
Ah,  dearest,  in  your  words  it  is  not  talent, 
it  is  genius  that  I  find  !  How  otherwise 
could  you  so  affect  me  ? 

How  I  detest  those  people,  the  type  of 
whom  you  speak  !  I  was  brought  up  among 
them.  Luckily  I  reacted  violently.  It  was 
as  if  hens  had  hatched  a  hawk. 

I  agreed  with  what  you  said  about  Amer- 
ican reserve.  There  is  no  such  thing  as 
deep  emotion  which  does  not  find  an  outlet. 
One  might  as  well  talk  of  lava  being  hot 
and  plentiful  when  it  doesn't  erupt.  Yet  it 
is  strange  enough  that  I  have  always  been 
very  reserved  before.  It  is  only  to  you 
that  I  speak  out  of  my  heart. 

Letter  One  Hundred  and  Fourth. 

When,  in  your  angry  moments,  you  de- 
clare that  I  don't  suit  you  in  anything,  I  re- 
fuse to  believe  you.  What  a  state  of  things ! 
What  are  you  going  to  do  with  a  man  who, 
however  you  revile  him,  persists  in  thinking 
you  the  sweetest  woman  in  the  world,  dear 


262  HIS  LETTERS 

Helo  ?  You  will  have  to  try  some  act  of 
violence,  such  as  whipping  me  with  your 
slipper,  or  strangling  me  with  your  silk 
stocking,  or  trampling  on  me  with  your 
slender  foot ;  which  shall  it  be  ?  I  should 
revel  in  any  of  those  penalties  ! 

I  was  delighted  to-day  to  see  and  know 
how  thoroughly  your  pictures  have  been  ap- 
preciated abroad ;  above  all  that  they  have 
been  spoken  of  in  such  high  praise  by  one  who 
is  an  acknowledged  master.  Such  unprece- 
dented testimony  to  the  merit  of  your  work 
ought  to  let  in  a  ray  of  light  upon  the  dark- 
ened intellects  that  cannot  recognize  supe- 
rior talent. 

They  are  touching  lines  you  gave  me, 
"Thou  or  I."  They  were  evidently  written 
by  a  woman,  and  she  is  quite  right  in  finally 
acknowledging  that  the  man  died  first.  It 
is  a  very  curious  fact — have  you  not  noticed 
it  ? — that  while  of  little  passions  the  woman 
is  generally  the  first  if  not  the  only  victim, 
in  great  passions  it  is  the  man  that  suffers. 
We  know  that  Beatrice  did  not  value  Dante's 
devotion  at  the  price  of  a  glove,  and  that 
Laura  never  gave  a  thought  to  Petrarch. 


HIS  LETTERS  263 

It  is  true,  on  the  other  hand,  that  Vanessa 
died  for  Swift — one  of  the  most  amazing  tri- 
umphs of  intellect  over  physical  unattractive- 
ness  that  ever  I  heard  of.  What  is  really 
beautiful  in  the  lines  you  saved  for  me  is 
the  fact  that  the  survivor  who  writes  them, 
and  the  reader  also,  is  long  uncertain  which 
of  the  two  lovers  is  the  dead  one. 

You  say  in  your  sweetness  that  I  am  not 
one  of  the  vanquished  in  life's  battle. 
Everything  is  relative.  Defeat  or  triumph 
depends  upon  the  aims  one  started  with. 
But  oh,  I  have  known  you  !  I  have  not  been 
vanquished,  then  ;  that  was  an  all-sufficing 
victory. 

Letter  One  Hundred  and  Fifth. 

I  have  had  to  spend  many  days  and  hours 
lately  among  the  frightful  cads  who  haunt 
this  place,  because  I  was  nearer  you  and 
could  more  readily  obtain  your  letters. 
Such  considerations  have  no  weight  with 
me.  I  would  bear  much  worse  humiliation 
for  the  sake  of  a  line  from  you.  Yes,  I 
could  bear  anything  if  I  was  not  right  in 
divining  that  you  have  had  another  violent 


204  HIS  LETTERS 

reaction  against  me.  Well,  whose  fault  is 
it?  Certainly  not  yours.  A  wise  man  does 
not  blame  a  woman  for  such  impulsive  move- 
ments. He  puts  the  blame  where  it  be- 
longs— upon  himself.  It  is  his  part  to  put 
an  end  to  such  instinctive  variations  and 
recoils.  It  is  easier  to  see  how  to  do  it 
when  I  remember  how  different  you  were 
before  you  got  back  from  M. — before  you 
saw  me  and  heard  me  talk.  One  must  be 
blind  not  to  perceive  the  remedy.  I  desire 
to  be  put  on  probation  for  six  weeks.  Dur- 
ing that  time  I  do  not  wish  you  to  consent 
to  see  me.  If  in  that  time  I  cannot  con- 
vince you  that  I  love  you  as  you  wish  to  be 
loved,  I  will  submit  without  a  murmur  to 
a  final  decree  of  banishment  ;  but  I  want  a 
reprieve  and  further  trial.  I  believe  that  I 
can  make  you  forget  the  things  that  make 
you  hate  me.  You  never  owned  that  you 
hated  me  before  you  came  back  from  M. 
Why  is  it  now  impossible  to  regain  the 
trust  and  the  affection  that  for  a  little  while 
I  dreamed  were  mine  ?  There  are  still 
some  arrows  in  my  quiver.  Who  knows  ? 
perhaps  I  might  make  you  like  me  better 


HIS  LETTERS  265 

than  you  did  in  that  first  April  week.  At 
all  events  let  me  try.  I  have  swallowed  all 
the  insults  that  I  can  digest  at  present,  suf- 
fered all  the  misery  that  for  the  moment  I 
can  bear,  and  I  can  speak  of  all  this  more 
reasonably  and  cogently  than  I  can  write. 
You  will  let  me  speak  to-morrow ;  but  we 
will  not  walk  unless  you  command  it.  For 
such  an  interview  as  I  wish,  and  which 
means  everything  to  me,  you  surely  could 
let  me  come  to  your  house.  But  whatever 
your  orders,  of  course  I  shall  obey  them,  and 
nothing  that  you  could  say  or  do  could  pre- 
vent me  from  being, 

Yours  forever, 

HUBERT. 

Letter  One  Hundred  and  Sixth. 

I  read  the  extract  from  the  letter  which 
you  sent  me  with  the  strangest  sensations 
of  mingled  amusement  and  delight.  But 
you  cannot  terrify  me  by  showing  me  how 
redoubtable  you  are  to  others.  Of  course 
you  are,  but  the  old  soothsayer  in  France 
was  right ;  you  are  too  intensely  femme  not 
to  be  the  slave  of  the  man,  the  lucky  one 


266  HIS  LETTERS 

whom  you  should  really  care  for.  Ah, 
surely,  he  would  be  born  under  a  bright 
star,  and  you  would  not  be  in  the  least 
afraid  of  his  mastery ;  one  never  is  when 
one  really  loves.  That  is  the  final  cul- 
minating test.  Of  course  you  would  rebel, 
because  it  naturally  takes  time  for  an  em- 
press to  realize  that  she  has  given  herself  a 
master  at  last ;  yet  really,  upon  the  whole, 
she  does'  not  suffer  much.  There  are  worse 
things  in  this  vale  of  tears  than  to  be  the 
slave  of  one  who  loves  you  to  distraction ; 
and  who  cannot  define  the  difference  be- 
tween slavery  and  tyranny.  .  .  . 

I  told  you  the  deepest  wish  of  my  heart 
when  I  said  that  I  wanted  to  carry  you  to 
Constantinople.  How  have  I  smiled  when 
you  have  told  me  that  I  knew  not  jealousy  ! 
If  I  do  not  dwell  upon  your  past  it  is  because 
I  am  quite  sufficiently  preoccupied  by  the 
present  and  the  future.  Dearest,  never 
make  me  jealous !  You  do  not  know  me  if 
you  imagine  that  it  will  be  safely  done  ;  I 
don't  mean  safely  to  you  but  safely  to  me. 
I  am  not  vain  ;  it  is  only  vanity  that  enables 
men  to  bear  the  pangs  of  real  jealousy. 


HIS  LETTERS  267 

You  will  toss  these  warnings  aside,  I  dare 
say,  but  if  you  do,  and  truly  care  for  me  a 
little,  as  I  must  now  believe,  you  may  find 
out  some  day  too  late  that  I  was  very 
earnest.  Oh,  you  will  never  understand  how 
I  am  racked  by  that  feeling ;  but  now  it  is 
enough  joy  to  me  to  hear  you  speak  and 
touch  your  ardent  hand.  Forgive  me  if  I 
have  sometimes  blasphemed  by  pretending 
otherwise  in  the  wild  and  fruitless  effort  to 
gain  more  ! 

Au  revoir,  &  bientdt,  my  morning  star! 

Letter  One  Hundred  and  Seventh. 

I  kissed  your  letter  for  the  exquisite  hand 
that  penned  it.  You  bid  me  tell  you  more 
about  my  life ;  it  is  too  humdrum,  too 
packed  with  drudgery  to  interest  such  an 
one  as  you.  There  is  not  an  act,  a  word,  a 
thought  which  I  would  not  gladly  have  you 
know. 

Often  have  I  wished  that  I  could  give 
you  the  ring  which  made  the  bearer  invis- 
ible. When  I  read  your  letter  I  felt  wicked, 
almost  sacrilegious  that  I  dared  to  feel  any- 
thing but  reverence  for  thee.  Ah,  forgive 


268  HIS  LETTERS 

me  that  I  love  you  with  such  a  passionate 
human  ardor ;  I  cannot  help  it.  It  is  too 
late,  I  fear,  for  me  to  change  the  nature  of 
my  passion.  Although  you  have  every- 
thing in  you  with  which  to  elevate  a  lover, 
you  have  also,  dearest,  everything  with 
which  to  bewitch  him.  For  if  you  are  the 
noblest,  the  fairest,  the  most  radiantly 
gifted  of  women,  you  are  also  the  most 
physically  lovely. 

Ah,  in  pity,  dearest,  love  me  ! 

Letter  One  Hundred  and  Eighth. 

Ah,  yes,  dear  ;  in  spite  of  your  tender  and 
inspiring  words,  my  life  was  manque'e.  I 
did  not  care  for  pecuniary  success.  It 
seemed  to  me  that  I  had  sold  my  birthright 
for  a  mess  of  pottage.  I  felt,  as  I  told  you 
that  first  time,  like  a  gladiator,  like  a  man 
born  free,  but  made  captive,  and  forced  to 
use  his  sinews  and  his  thews  for  hire.  I 
hated  life  ;  I  wanted  to  die.  I  saw  no 
possibility  of  change  to  another  profession  ; 
and  all  I  looked  forward  to  was  accumulat- 
ing as  quickly  as  possible  a  provision  for 
those  who  are  dependent  upon  me,  and 


HIS  LETTERS  269 

then    quieting    my    heart-burnings   in   the 
most  effectual  way. 

And  then  I  saw  your  painting,  and  in  it 
I  saw  you,  and  for  the  first  time  realized  all 
that  love  might  mean.  That  oath,  ah,  it 
was  an  oath,  dearest,  which  it  would  have 
been  the  most  shocking  blasphemy  to  take 
about  any  other  woman  but  you.  I  had 
used  it  once  about  myself,  when  I  swore  to 
outgrow  selfishness,  and  to  recognize  the 
responsibility  which  I  too  lightly  had  as- 
sumed. It  was  by  my  mother's  memory 
that  I  swore  to  touch  your  heart ;  and  it  is 
not  alone  your  beauty  which  I  yearn  for,  it 
is  the  sweet  and  noble  and  lofty  soul,  the 
genius  that  radiates  through  your  looks 
and  your  words.  I  wanted  to  marry  your 
mind.  I  cannot  tell  you  with  what  inde- 
scribable emotions  of  delight  I  have  seen 
your  last  picture.  Remember,  it  is  the  first 
thing  of  yours  that  has  been  exhibited 
since  you  began  to  care  for  me  a  little.  I 
cannot  describe  to  you  the  elation  with 
which  I  fancied  that  I  could  descry  some 
traces  of  an  approaching  marriage  of  our 
souls, 


270  HIS  LETTERS 

Good-night,  my  angel. 

I  must  have  your  heart,  it  must  be  mine, 
queen  of  my  soul ! 

When  shall  I  look  again  into  those  love- 
haunted  eyes  ? 

Letter  One  Hundred  and  Ninth. 

I  cannot  forget  the  color  of  your  cheeks 
the  last  time  that  I  saw  you.  Why,  they 
were  beautiful  disks  of  flame,  such  disks  as 
Venus  wore  when  she  sprang  out  of  the  sea 
at  Paphos,  to  set  the  world  ablaze. 

How  many  things  you  have  taught  me ! 
above  all  a  hundred  passionate  and  tender 
yearnings  of  which  I  had  never  dreamed. 
You  ought  to  love  me  if  love  ever  is  re- 
sponsive to  ardor  in  the  worshiper. 

Do  you  know  that  when  I  think  of  and 
sometimes  speak  to  you,  I  cannot  help  us- 
ing diminutives,  dignified  and  stately  as  you 
are  at  will.  I  use  them,  I  think,  in  obe- 
dience to  a  deep  instinct  twined  around  the 
roots  of  a  virile  heart,  yes,  an  instinct  hun- 
dreds of  thousands  of  years  old.  For  even 
in  the  cave  dwellings  you  find  the  bones  of 
the  men  close  to  the  portal,  while  the  re- 


tfIS  LETTERS  271 

mains  of  the  women  and  children  lie  far 
within.  It  is  clear  that  all  the  tenants  of 
such  caves  succumbed  to  some  overwhelm- 
ing assault ;  but  the  men,  at  least,  fell  in 
the  right  place.  No,  it  is  impossible  for 
the  man  really  in  love  not  to  feel  a  protect- 
ing impulse. 

V raiment,  vous  saves  il  est  ddfendu  d'etre 
enchantcresse  a  un  tel point. 

How  do  you  manage  to  live  and  be  so 
sweet  ?  I  marvel  that  other  women  have 
not  long  since  poisoned  you. 

Do  you  remember  that  tryst  upon  the 
beautiful  bridge  ?  Ah,  there  is  not  a  mo- 
ment of  the  day,  or  of  my  waking  hours  at 
night,  when  I  do  not  remember  that ! 

Letter  One  Hundred  and  Tenth. 

I  send  back  the  book  that  you  lent  me. 
Of  course  I  liked  it,  loved  it.  How  can  I 
help  liking  anything  that  you  like?  Never 
was^  there  such  perfect  sympathy.  I  under- 
stand you  ;  I  know  what  you  think  and 
wish.  Oh,  dearest,  what  bliss  you  give  me 
when  you  tell  me  that  I  have  made  you 
happy.  I  want  to,  and  I  rack  my  own 


s; 2  ttis  LETTERS 

heart  when  I  am  unkind  to  you.  ...  I  live 
and  feel  only  in  you.  I  haven't  a  trace  of 
egotism  left,  unless  it  be  the  vanity  sud- 
denly awakened  in  me  by  the  belief  that 
you  care  for  me  a  little.  Will  you  forgive 
that  sort  of  egotism  ?  How  good  it  was  of 
you  to  write  that  letter  ;  you  knew  I  should 
be  pining.  Yes,  I  pine. 

I  am  intensely  jealous  of  everyone  that 
saw  those  little  gold-embroidered  shoes ; 
and  I  dislike  and  distrust  the  keen-sighted 
person  that  saw  a  mystery  in  my  darling's 
face.  Give  me  the  mysteries  ;  they  are 
mine.  If  there  is  "radiance  "  it  belongs  to 
me.  Ah,  I  shall  have  to  lock  you  up.  You 
are  too  bewilderingly  handsome  to  be  allowed 
to  go  about.  The  Turks  are  right.  I  am 
rapidly  becoming  a  Turk.  If  I  could  carry 
you  off  to  a  villa  on  the  Bosporus,  I  would 
straightway  become  a  Moslem.  I  should 
be  your  master,  and  you  could  not  escape. 
Would  you  want  to  ? 

Last  night  again  I  had  a  dream  of 
thee !  Ah,  in  my  dreams  I  am  like  one 
under  delicious  spells.  The  happy  victim 
of  some  tender  witchery,  the  enamored 


HIS  LETTERS  273 

slave  of  an  impassioned  mistress,  whose 
harshest  injunction  is  to  love  .  .  .  and 
love. 

And  then,  alas  !    I  wake. 

Letter  One  Hundred  and  Eleventh. 

Do  we  not  have  our  fill  of  romance,  sweet 
Helo  ?  or  did  I  dream  that  someone  cried 
"  Fire "  when  we  were  together  in  your 
studio.  I  would  have  wrapped  my  coat 
over  your  face  and  bosom,  and  you 
would  have  taken  my  hand,  and  thus  I 
would  have  conveyed  you  through  the  flame. 
I  doubt  if  all  the  engines  in  the  city  could 
put  out  the  flames  that  your  loveliness 
kindles  !  Dearest,  tell  me,  is  your  throat 
better  ?  It  is  the  strangest  thing — I  also 
have  a  sore  throat  this  morning.  I  never 
was  so  delighted  in  my  life ;  I  want  to  have 
everything  that  you  have.  Before  God,  if 
I  knew  that  you  were  dying  of  diphtheria, 
I  would  upset  the  earth  to  get  to  you,  that 
I  might  drink  your  breath  and  rejoin  you 
quickly.  There  is  no  doubt  about  it  that 
since  I  knew  you  I  am  becoming  a  convert 
to  Islam.  And  if  I  believed  in  the  harem, 


274  HIS  LETTERS 

I  should  not  care  for  any  odalisques.  One 
sultana  would  suffice,  provided  her  name 
was  yours.  But  I  would  have  her  guarded 
with  drawn  swords  ;  and  never  should  she 
put  her  face  out  of  the  zenana,  except  in  her 
lord's  company.  I  am  afraid  you  think  a 
palace  on  the  Bosporus  would  be  a  dismal 
prospect  for  a  belle  ! 

Letter  One  Hundred  and  Twelfth. 

My  adored  one,  I  have  your  telegram 
Then  you  did  not  like  one  of  my  letters  ? 
Ah  me,  and  I  was  so  foolishly  happy.  No 
sooner  had  I  written  and  dispatched  that 
poor  little  missive  than  I  desired  to  live 
over  again  the  hours  that  I  passed  with  you. 
First  I  drove  up  the  river  and  got  some 
dinner,  or  pretended  to,  sitting  at  the  same 
table,  and  in  the  very  chair  where  she  had 
sat  Then  I  came  home,  threw  myself  on 
the  sofa,  in  my  study,  determined  to  sleep 
or  dream  there.  It  is  a  strange  fancy,  but 
it  is  a  fact  that  I  fell  into  a  deep,  refreshing 
slumber,  an  amazing  contrast  to  the  broken 
and  feverish  hours  of  the  preceding  night. 
But  alas,  perhaps  she  doesn't  want  me  to 


HIS  LETTERS  275 

sleep ;  perhaps  she  doesn't  want  me  to  feel 
happy. 

Letter  One  Hundred  and  Thirteenth. 

What  an  extraordinary  thing  is  love  !  I 
perceive  that  I  never  knew  anything  about 
it  until  you  flashed  upon  me,  and  I  fell 
forthwith  to  worshiping.  I  really  used  to 
be  fool  enough  to  suppose  that  love  was  all 
fun.  Heavens  !  there  is  very  little  fun  in  it. 
There  is  some  rapture  and  a  great  deal  of 
torment.  And  the  strangest  thing  of  all  is 
that  even  the  torments  your  beloved  causes 
you  seem  ecstasies  compared  with  any 
pleasures  another  could  give. 

Ah,  do  you  know  that  you  put  a  wonder- 
ful vitality  and  delicious  meaning  into  even 
the  commonplace  phrases  which  I  used  to 
loathe.  It  is  a  copybook  aphorism  that 
love  is  a  madness.  How  often  have  I 
smiled  at  that !  Why — it  is  true.  I  am 
quite  mad.  I  know  that  I  have  not  been 
sane  an  hour  since  you  came  back  ;  and 
even  before  that  I  had  shown  many  signs  of 
aberration.  On  the  night  of  your  depar- 
ture, for  example,  it  would  have  needed  but 


27^  HIS  LETTERS 

little  more  to  upset  my  reason.  And  yet 
the  sweet  and  splendid  creature  that  has  so 
conquered,  demented,  absorbed  me  that  I 
only  breathe  at  her  good  pleasure,  has 
sometimes  bidden  me  to  "  pause  and  think." 
Why,  would  she  have  my  heart  stop  beat- 
ing ?  While  it  beats  at  all  it  will  beat  for 
her.  And  thinking  ? — What  then  does  she 
call  this  incessant  preoccupation  of  my 
brain  ?  When  I  cease,  dearest,  to  think  of 
you,  be  sure  that  I  am  dead. 

Then  there  is  another  conventional  phrase 
which  I  used  to  hear  with  amused  incredu- 
lity. "  He  actually  adores  the  ground  she 
walks  upon."  Well — this  too  is  true.  Did 
I  not  stoop  and  kiss  your  footprints  on  the 
sand  ? 

Letter  One  Hundred  and  Fourteenth. 

To-night  I  had  been  inveigled  into  joining 
a  party  to  the  play.  But  when  the  evening 
came,  having  received  no  letter  from  you,  I 
was  actually  ill.  It  is  incredible  what  power 
the  mind  has  on  the  body.  So  I  got  out 
of  my  engagement  as  best  I  could,  and  oh, 
how  thankful  I  was  that  I  had  not  gone ! 


tffS  LETTERS  277 

For  your  dear,  dear  letter  came  at  last.  I 
have  kissed  every  page.  Ah,  you  make  me 
good  as  well  as  happy ;  you  make  me  be- 
lieve in  God.  How  else  can  I  account  for 
the  existence  of  such  a  beautiful  and  noble 
being?  Thank  you  for  telling  me  that  you 
don't  flirt.  I  will  try  to  believe  you,  since 
you  cannot  guess  what  that  belief  will  mean 
to  me.  As  for  me,  I  don't  know  that  any 
other  woman  is  existing.  If  I  had  to  see  and 
be  civil  to  other  women,  they  would  be  repul- 
sive, loathsome  to  me.  I  pity  other  men 
who  imagine  that  there  are  any  real  women 
in  the  world  except  one.  Of  course  I  am 
your  slave ;  you  have  put  a  ribbon  around 
my  neck.  You  didn't  need  a  chain ;  of 
course  I  would  obey  your  slightest  wish. 

Do  you  know,  I  have  heard  your  eyes 
called  cruel,  but  to  me  they  seem  full  of 
tenderness.  Sometimes  I  feel  that  I  could 
be  satisfied  with  lying  forever  at  your  slen- 
der feet,  and  riveting  my  eyes  upon  the 
witchery  of  your  face  ;  and  again,  I  feel  that 
nothing  will  content  me  but  to  seize  and 
crush  you  and  make  you  my  own.  So  I 
really  cannot  tell  whether  my  passion  for 


278  HIS  LETTERS 

you  has  more  of  gentleness  or  of  fierceness 
in  it. 

Last  Letter — One  Hundred  and  Fifteenth. 

When  I  found  nothing  to-day,  I  rushed 
over  to  a  quiet  nook,  and  read  over  for  the 
hundredth  time  the  few  of  my  darling's 
letters — there  are  five  of  them — which  I  still 
retain ;  especially  the  precious  one  which 
you  penned  just  before  your  departure.  I 
never  burn  one  of  your  letters  without  feel- 
ing as  if  I  had  committed  a  murder,  as  if  I 
had  killed  something  whose  beauty  and 
nobility  should  have  been  guaranties  of  im- 
mortality. What  delicious  things  you  say 
to  me  !  What  a  wonderful  thing  is  passion 
when  it  is  refined,  inflamed,  and  glorified  by 
the  soul  of  a  genius  and  the  delicacy  of  a 
great  lady.  .  .  . 

In  one  of  your  letters  you  say  that  there 
is  a  side  of  your  character  that  I  have  never 
seen — an  irritable  side.  I  never  shall  see  it, 
dearest ;  it  is  not  natural  to  you.  In  an  at- 
mosphere of  instant  comprehension,  perfect 
sympathy,  and  devoted  love  what  could 
chafe  or  exasperate  ?  I  know  well  what 


7/75  LETTERS  279 

are  the  conditions  that  clog  and  cramp  and 
stifle  a  sensitive  and  aspiring  nature.  It 
would  be  ridiculous  to  compare  myself  to 
thee  from  such  a  point  of  view,  but  even 
I,  who  used  to  be  the  most  even-tempered 
of  men,  have  of  late  rebelled  against  non- 
comprehension,  and  become  impatient. 
But  I  have  shown  no  traces  of  such  a 
change  to  you,  sweet  one,  have  I  ?  How 
could  I  when  you  make  me  so  happy  and 
so  proud  ?  For  your  words  and  your  be- 
witching presence  fill  me  with  a  happiness 
that  I  have  never  dreamed  before. 

My  precious  dear,  I  wonder  whether  any 
man  has  loved  a  woman  precisely  as  I  love 
you.  My  love  is  the  strangest  combination 
of  passion,  sympathy,  admiration,  and  re- 
spect. I  cannot  separate  the  elements  even 
in  imagination,  they  are  so  intimately 
blended,  chemically  fused.  What  potion 
hast  thou  given  me,  oh,  thou  daughter  of  the 
gods  ?  Why  is  it  that  I  know  not  whether 
to  kneel  to  you  in  worship,  or  to  seize  you  in 
my  arms  and  learn  whether  my  divinity  is 
also  a  loving  woman  ?  You  have  brought 
sunshine  into  my  life.  Nature  has  stamped 


z8o  HIS  LETTERS 

upon  you  all  her  enthralling  graces.  Never 
shall  I  forget  my  feelings,  the  other  after- 
noon, when,  after  stopping  your  carriage,  I 
turned  sharply,  and  saw  her — my  goddess — 
advancing  toward  me,  tripping  as  Aurora 
tripped — no,  floating,  skimming  like  a  splen- 
did sailing-ship  under  full  canvas,  on  an  en- 
amored gale.  My  heavens,  what  a  sight  was 
that !  I  think  that  in  my  death  hour  that 
sight  will  come  to  my  fast  closing  eyes,  and 
they  that  watch  beside  my  pillow  will  see  a 
smile  upon  my  lips ;  for  I  shall  see  you,  dar- 
ling, coming  to  meet  me — to  meet  me— 
somewhere — on  the  further  side  of  Styx. 


THE     END. 


DC  SOUTHERN  REGIONAL  LIBRAfl 
Illl  Illlll 


A     000118022     3 


